no such thing as decent
by Zombie-Jedi-Nightwing
Summary: After the first camp is overrun, the group spends the night hiding away on the highway. Daryl endures his first night of the apocalypse without Merle, convinced he's utterly alone. Lucky for him Dale's the observant type. [not slash]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: this is my first "Walking Dead" fanfiction, I've just finished season 4 on DVD and felt like writing some stories for it. This takes place in between when the quarry camp is overrun and when the group arrives at the CDC, during Season #1. **

**This is not slash, just some bonding/friendship with Daryl, Dale, and later Rick. Rated T for all things "The Walking Dead" is rated for, including language.**

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><p>He never would have guessed that something as simple and basic as a highway could be so… ominous. Stalled cars littered one lane, while wreckage and debris were scatted across the other. Dale Horvath silently cursed himself for not thinking of sending someone out ahead to scout for possible obstructions earlier, before forcing the RV and the other cars belonging to the group's caravan onto the cluttered highway. They could've sent someone up ahead, just to make sure the pathway was clear; but they hadn't, because Atlanta and the CDC building they were heading for was only a few miles away, and they had assumed they could make it in by nightfall. They had <em>assumed<em>, and that's why they were trapped out here now, spending the night with the group all crammed into their cars and his RV, trying to ignore the fact that they were stranded in the middle of a deserted highway with the walking dead all around them.

Rick Grimes… he'd told Dale it was his fault. He too had made the assumption that the roads would be as clear as they were when he'd led the stranded group members out of the city. When they'd found all those streets absolutely jammed with walkers, he'd scorned himself until Grimes' wife Lori, and his partner Shane, had snapped him out of it. Told him it wasn't his fault. He was a good man, that Rick Grimes – Dale could already see how the group looked up to him. A new face meant a new hope for salvation, and he could really only pray that Grimes lived up to their expectations. He'd already started making the tough calls: taking the group out to the CDC, leaving Jim behind after being bitten.

Handcuffing Merle Dixon to a rooftop on Atlanta and giving the man reason to saw his own hand off.

He didn't blame Rick for doing that – from what he'd seen of the oldest Dixon brother, he was a pain in the ass and nothing more – but it _had _been a grave decision. Especially if one considered the repercussions hammering against Merle's younger brother, Daryl. And that seemed to be all anyone could consider, because while Merle had done nothing but lounge around camp and toss around vulgar language, Daryl had gone out into the woods and hunted for the group of strangers he'd hardly known. They'd tried thanking the young redneck who was in his late twenties; yet Daryl Dixon seemed to share his brother's pariah instincts, shying away from conversation and flinching back from physical contact. Not to mention he seemed to carry on his brother's profane choice of words most of the time.

Dale shifted in his seat, trying to force his fifty-something-year-old body into a comfortable position perched in a lawn chair on the roof of his beloved RV. The shotgun he used leaned lazily by his side, and he kept his binoculars balanced on his lap as he scanned the immediate surroundings for any signs of danger. It was a crescent moon, and thus the night was unnervingly dark, the stars dull and the lightning bugs scattered all around. The breeze was comforting, however; a warm, caressing zephyr that relaxed some of his nerves. He leant back in the chair, sighing and scratching at his white/gray whiskers.

It was the fact that the darkness was so engulfing, so complete, that made seeing a light flash below so startling. He sat up immediately, muscles already tense and now ready to spring, prepared to make a run for the RV's ladder or to call out a warning. He relaxed a bit when he noticed the light was simply coming from a member of the group, their flashlight bouncing off random car mirrors as they moved around the street below. Still, the knowledge was a bit unsettling – it was one o'clock in the morning, and he was the only one on watch at this hour. He peered down over the lip of the vehicle's edge, and watched a man's figure stride towards the edge of the highway, over where the woods began. It only took a quick observation of the man's swinging pace, not to mention the sleeveless shirt and crossbow slung over one shoulder, for Dale to identify the person.

"Daryl Dixon," he muttered, eyebrows swiftly traveling north as he grabbed his binoculars. He peered through the lenses, watching the younger man disappear into the forest's borders. When he was out of sight, Dale lowered the lenses, frowning, because last he'd heard was that Daryl was camping out in one of the abandoned cars; and to go disappearing into the woods in the middle of the night all alone had certainly not been mentioned. Not that Daryl was the perfect candidate for conversation. Now standing on his RV's roof, he waited several minutes to see if maybe the youngest Dixon brother had simply gone to relieve himself; and when nearly ten minutes stretched by, he grabbed his rifle and headed for the ladder.

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><p>His footsteps were silent against the damp grass and leaves as he noiselessly slipped around trees and bushes, years of experience as a hunter making him blend effortlessly into his surroundings. Daryl Dixon kept his flashlight aimed at the ground – no need to be sending the Bat symbol out to alert any walkers – and used his ears and other senses to help him drift deeper and deeper into the thin forestry, knowing well enough to not rely solely on his eyes. He counted his paces, making sure not to stray too far away; it wasn't that he couldn't handle himself out here, because he could, but if something went wrong back at the group he'd have to go back and help them. Well, not that he <em>had <em>to – those people sure as hell hadn't given a damn towards Merle, and why should he be any different in their eyes – but there were kids. Little boy, little girl. Couldn't let the undead be getting to them, now could he? He didn't like people, sure, but he wasn't a freakin' monster.

Though, from the looks of the people back at the camp had thrown him, they sure thought different. He knew what they assumed. Cussing, no manners, no education redneck asshole, and his even bigger asshole brother. That's what Daryl had read on their faces the first time he and Merle had shown up at their little camp near the quarry; and why should things have changed now? That Rick Grimes had left Merle up on a rooftop to _die_, and he'd only found his big brother's _severed hand_ when he'd gone back to look for him. _Ass_, he thought, sending mental rants towards Merle, wherever he was. _All ya had to do was sit tight, ya dumbass. I went back for you. Did ya think I wouldn't? Well, I did; and guess what I found? Yer fucking hand. So now you're out there bleeding out somewhere, and I'm stuck here with a bunch of annoying, scrutinizing pansies who'll probably use me as bait for the walkers next chance they get. _He paused in his stride to kick a large rock into the darkness ahead. He heard it thump against a dead tree trunk. _Thanks for leaving me _again_, ya fucking asshat._

He heard another thump up ahead – which was strange, since he'd already heard the rock land – and he stopped dead in his tracks, listening. Another thump, and the sound of twigs breaking under sudden weight filled his ears. Slowly, he crouched down a bit as he swung his crossbow off of his shoulders, shining his light straight ahead; and he stumbled back several steps, eyes widening as the cold white illumination revealed over a dozen walkers all stumbling forward, only 'bout ten feet away.

He barely registered someone shouting out his name as he shot his arrow dead center into the nearest corpse's forehead.

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><p>"DARYL!"<p>

Dale, not exactly being in his prime years, was out of breath by the time he managed to locate and then reach Daryl's location. Panting hard, he fumbled to cock the safety off the shotgun as he noticed fourteen or so walkers slowly surrounding the younger man, who was picking them off slowly with his crossbow. Too slow. And there was no way he had enough arrows for all of them. Finally getting the gun all prepped, Dale aimed at a nearby thing that had once been a woman, and to hell with the noise as he fired. Brain matter went flying up as the rotting body fell, and Daryl spun around in shock at the sudden noise, a look of incredulous disbelief splattered all over his face. "The hell you doin' here, old man?!" he called over as he returned his attention to the walkers.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Dale countered, unafraid of the fierce temper engraved in the other man's words as he shot his firearm again. Now, his ears were ringing with the echoes of the gun and the loud, ravenous groans of the dead – he sensed one sneaking up a bit too close to his shoulder and spun around, grunting as he bashed the thing's skull in with the shotgun. "What were you thinking, coming out here all on your own?" he questioned Daryl once his victimized walker stopped moving.

"Are ya shittin' me?" was the scoffing reply, followed by a snort as he stabbed a nearby walker with his arrow, kicking the thing's legs out from under it as he did so. "I don' need no babysitter, old timer. Ya should back the hell up 'fore ya get hurt! I got this!"

Dale watched a walker nearly bite a chunk out of the young archer's ankle before he blew a hole through its cranium. "Right, you've _got this_."

Obviously, Daryl wasn't pleased with sarcasm coming from anyone but him, because he shot his rescuer a venomous glare before turning back to fighting off three of the creatures that seemed to come from all directions.

Several more shots echoed through the air, but they were less fierce than Dale's shotgun. The older man turned to see Rick Grimes, Shane Walsh, and T-Dog (seemed no one knew what that man's real name was) come crashing through the woods, their pistols raised and already downing walkers as they moved in. Rick made his way to Dale's side, firing off three more rounds. "What's going on out here?" he inquired, not diverting any attention to actually look at the other man. "What happened?"

Dale didn't really manage an answer; he was too busy watched Daryl and Shane kick in a walker's skull with their boots, crushing the soggy bone into nothing but a thick, black soup. He swallowed bile and turned away.

With the extra ammo, the small horde was almost instantly cleared out. The woods once again returned to their dreary silence; though the scenery was less serene, with guts and gore splattered all about. Quiet slowly returned to its original, thick volume, broken only by deep breathing from the men and a few crickets.

Shane, first to recover from the violence as usual, immediately turned to Dale for answers. "What just happened out here?" he panted, running a hand through thick locks of jet black hair, mouth slightly agape as he waited impatiently for a reply. "Well?"

Strangely, Daryl was the one who offered an answer. The archer was gathering back up his arrows, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably as he stared holes into the ground near his feet. "Went ta take a piss, found some undead perverts nearby," he stated dryly, kicking a limp corpse to enunciate his words.

Shane immediately spun around on his heels and walked over to the other man, ignoring how Rick moved forward as well. "You came this deep out into the woods to take a leak?" he asked, disbelief etched in his features. "There's a friggin RV ten feet from where you were."

"Yeah, sure," he sniffed, glaring at the former deputy. "Get me creepin' around the old timer's camper with all 'em girls tucked away inside sleepin'… sure, like ya would've taken _that _any better."

It was Rick Grimes, the annoyingly saintly newcomer to the group, that stepped in as he tended to do often nowadays, planting himself firmly between his best friend and Daryl Dixon. "I think this can all wait 'till tomorrow to be discussed, when the surroundings are a bit less… threatening," he suggested, tucking his pistol back into its holster. "How's 'bout we all just head back and we can talk this out in the mornin'." His tone seemed to say that this wasn't just a suggestion; course. The guy was a damn sheriff, used to giving the orders. Daryl glared at him good and hard, adrenaline still not quite down yet. He spit at the ground, the saliva landing an inch from Rick's boots. "Yeah, ya'll, let's do whateva tha damn pig says."

The words were muttered, but Shane still took several lumbering steps forward, jumping to his old partner's defense. Rick stuck his arm out, holding his friend back, and kept a blank expression as he faced Daryl. "Is there something you want to say to me, Daryl?" he asked slowly, voice low and drawn out as if he were talking to some wild animal.

And hell, he was just so tired of people treating like he was a mad dog that he lunged thrust both hands forward, knocking smooth-talking Rick Grimes backwards so that he nearly fell flat on his back. "Hells yeah I have a problem! You handcuffed my _brother _to a fuckin' _roof_ and left 'im there ta _die_!" He shoved his way past a moving Shane and T-Dog and stood right up to Grimes, sneering. "I'm _sick_ of you parasitic bastards and bitches thinkin' ya can all walk right over me and my brother, like we' white trash! You pigs think ya can just go on and _kill_ my brother, and then waltz back to my face saying he _deserved it_?!" He ignored the little whisper in his mind that told him "yes, Merle _did _deserve it", and instead kept his focus glued to Rick Grimes' stunned expression. He looked taken off guard, speechless. Good. "Back in tha day, ya'll wouldn't have left a rabid _dog _to die like that! And Merle was no damn dog, he was my _brother_!"

Behind him, he suddenly heard a loud, too familiar groan; and within seconds, he'd raised his crossbow, and with an angry "Shut the fuck up!", he pulled the trigger and nailed the walker to a nearby tree.

Afterwards, the woods got too quiet. No one spoke, Shane had stopped trying to tackle him to the ground, Rick was still standing in his slumped position blinking dumbly, T-Dog was watching the whole thing with intense eyes, and Dale… Dale had his lips pursed, but he wasn't angry. No. Daryl had not once ever seen that man with a temper, and the fact that even now that he'd shoved Rick Grimes and nearly attracted a whole herd of flesh eating monsters to their location, that Dale was _still _not glaring at him with disgust or contempt unnerved him. The elder looked almost… sympathetic. Understanding.

It was that look that he couldn't stand, and he suddenly just wanted to get out of there, not caring 'bout his arrow still stuck in that damn walker. Huffing, he swung around, snarling and marching back towards the highway. "The hell with all ya motherless cocksuckers," he spat out, storming away into the shadows; and leaving four men left standing in the woods, minds buzzing, totally at a loss for words.

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><p><strong>This will probably be a three part story. Please review, comments thrill me :)<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I love writing the southern accents for the characters. I'm doing my best not to be OOC, and there should be one or two more chapters left.**

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><p>"He's dangerous." Shane Walsh's voice was crisp and set firm, his palm slapping down on the hood of the car that he and the other three men were standing around. To prove his point, the former deputy cocked his head over to where Daryl Dixon stood several feet away, kicking an old SUV's tires in with his boots.<p>

"The man _just _lost his brother, Shane," Dale reasoned, locking eyes with the others. "You need to understand what that feels like."

"I damn well know what it feels like," was the venomous reply as Shane jabbed his thumb over towards Rick Grimes. "I'd lost _that guy_, _my brother_, once before, and I didn't go off losing it and trying to become walker bait." He returned Rick's grateful nod before continuing. "I kept my _head_, Dale. I focused on getting' Lori and Carl out of the city, and I focused on keeping of ya'll alive."

Damn, Dale Horvath's intense gaze was unnerving, peering right through him as if dissecting him bit by bit. "I know what you did, Shane," he replied slowly, his words implying more than they actually said. They said: _I saw you out in the woods back at camp. I saw you aiming that rifle at your so-called 'brother'. I know what thoughts run through your mind at night, and I know damn well why you worked so hard to keep Lori Grimes and her son alive_.

Shane dropped the eye contact, scowling. _You know nothin', Horvath_, he ranted inwardly, biting his lip and shaking his head slowly as he knew what the older man was insinuating. _I never _looked _at her before all this crap. I thought Rick was _dead_. What would you do, in my situation, if the whole gawdamn world was crashing down on you, ya know it all bastard. _

"Let's all just take a minute to calm down," Rick spoke up, tossing Shane a glance. "From what I've seen, Daryl's got a temper, and, like Dale just pointed out to us, we _had _just lost him his brother; that's not enough reason to assume he's _dangerous_."

"He nearly attracted the whole world of walkers to our front doorstep, Rick," Shane replied, voice slightly muffled from where he had rested his forehead on the old car's hood, surrounding by his arms. "And, damnit, we don't even _have _a front doorstep. If those walkers had gotten us, they would've gone right on marchin' to the highway, and then what?"

Rick rubbed a hand over his face. "But they _hadn't_, and that's what we've gotta remember…"

"You really want Daryl _Dixon _sleepin' next to Lori and Carl, Rick?"

"Oh, _come on_, Shane," Dale rebuked, brow furrowing. "The man's a hothead; he isn't a rapist."

The black-haired man shoved himself into a straight standing position, pointing a finger at him. "You don't know that," he pointed out. "None of you know that. We have no idea what they did or who the hell they were before shit hit the fan. Rick, you weren't here when he and that ass of a brother showed up at camp for the first time. Covered in blood, swearin' and lugging a whole arsenal with 'em. We lost the ammo and guns soon after, 'cause Merle went off shootin' anything that moved. You telling me that doesn't scream _problemo_, bro?"

"Yes, _Merle_ Dixon was a moron," Dale answered firmly. "But you're forgetting that while he was off shooting tree trunks, Daryl was either in the woods or sitting near their campsite, whittling with sticks or huntin' for _all of us_. Merle may have been dangerous, I agree – that doesn't mean his younger brother is the same."

"It's all the same, man…"

"No! No, it isn't!" Dale actually slammed his fist down on the car, showing his increasing frustration. The debating continued.

A few yards away, Dale's outburst caused Daryl to look up and actually glance at the others for the first time since his outburst in the forest. _Bunch of scheming bastards_. He went back to driving his toes into one of the already flat SUV tires, relishing in how the damaged rubber slowly fell apart flake by flake under the beating. He ignored the corpse that was still trapped in the driver's seat, what was left of the eyeballs staring hauntingly at him. He resisted the urge to punch the thing's rotting face in, and gave the tire another hard kick, just for the heck of it all.

Merle would be telling him to stop getting his panties in a twist. He'd be calling him a bitchin' sissy, twisting his name into "Darleena" is he often used to do. He'd order him to stop throwing a hissy fit and to get his ass back into bed, because they had survivin' to do in the mornin', and they'd need their fight in 'em. _But you ain't here, are ya, Merle?_ he challenged, scowl deepening. _No, ya just couldn't stay the hell where ya were, ya had to go be all melodramatic and chop ya own hand off. If you got off that damn roof, why didn't you hightail it back to camp? Why'd ya leave me with all these rotten, goody goody, judging, scheming, arbitrating, no good ASSHOLES. _He slammed his boot this time into the side of the car, hard enough to dent both the metal and his toe. Hissing profanities, he hopped away from the vehicle and sat down on the hood of another, punching the windshield and noticing the weirded out looks Rick Grimes and Shane Walsh were sending him. T-Dog was silently just hanging out near the others, and Dale was… shit, Dale still had that damn _look _on his face.

_Merle, you selfish bastard_. He glanced up at the dim stars, wonderin' if his brother were lookin' at the same sky he was, or he was holed up in some old shop. Or dead. He could be dead too. Eaten alive, or one of them things. _I can't believe ya left me alone _again_. Ya always hafta go runnin' off, lookin' for trouble. Couldn't you have just cooperated with 'em others just _once_, and not hafta get yourself handcuffed to a fucking roof? _He lowered his gaze, brow furrowing. _Good god, Merle is gone. _

His fist met the windshield once more. _Damnit! Merle is _gone_! And I'm here alone with 'em faggots!_

Even when the men's little conference ended, and they all headed back to their separate cars, Daryl stayed outside, hitting his bloodied hands against the heavy metal he sat on, cursing himself all the while.

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><p>He was pretty sure he should've just headed straight back for the RV and retaken up his watch duties. That would've been the sensible thing to do – after all, Rick <em>had <em>told them all to drop the situation until the morning, when they were all rested and thinking straight. So why Dale was doing this, going over to a still clearly angry Daryl Dixon after the others had went their separate ways, was beyond his weary mind. He just… Shane, that sly man, was wrong. He knew it this time. It was that stubborn determination engraved in him like an old mule that drove him over to where Dixon was perched on a battered up car, hitting the hood with red knuckles.

He got within five feet of him before Daryl craned his head to look at him. No. To _glare _at him, with dark, bitter eyes. There was a difference. "The hell you want?" he growled, sneering. "Come to tell me to pack up my stuff and leave?" Because why else would the old geezer still be following him around if not to be Rick Grimes little delivery boy?

He allowed a bit of surprise to show, but that was all. He refused to be chased off by mere surliness, and crossed his arms over his white undershirt and Hawaiian tee. "Nobody's asking you to _leave_, Daryl," he replied evenly. "I just… came to make sure you were alright, that's all."

The suspicious doubt didn't leave the younger man's face. "Well, I'm just peachy. So best you go back up to your little beach on the rooftop and leave me be." He turned away from him, signaling the end of this unwanted interaction. Dale didn't budge. At least there had been no cursing that time. He noticed the dried walker blood all over the man's shirt, and inhaled deeply. "You, um, you want me to get you some clean clothes? I have some that'll probably fit you."

_Fuck off_, his mind hissed; but, as the walker fighting adrenaline finally started dying away, and seeing as he was no longer beating up the cars, his spoken reply was less poisonous. "Don't need my clothes picked out for me, _momma_," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "Get outta here."

He took a step forward, though the redneck's aura screamed at him to do the exact opposite. "Is that all just walker blood, or did you get cut up."

Sensing the older man coming closer, Daryl's jumped to his feet and backed off, scowling. "What do ya care, ya old geezer? Git away from me." He shooed Dale off like he was some sort of mad dog dripping with drool.

"Daryl." What the heck was he doing again? Oh yea. Trying to tame a wild lion after it was just back from hunting. "You _are _bleeding," he noted, frowning when he caught sight of bright red blood glistening in the weak moonlight. "Were ya bit?"

Daryl continued backing up, even when a nearby bus left him with nowhere else to go."I ain't no gawdamn walker, ya crazy ass fool!"

He had never been a very smart man – intelligent and intellectual, yes; but his actual instincts… well… they sucked. And he was no doctor, either. So why the hell he kept on approaching a highly agitated Daryl Dixon while the man was clearly trying to send him off with a steady stream of vulgar insults was beyond what his mind could grasp at the moment. The gash on Dixon's arm clearly wasn't that bad, a mere cut from a branch, but he reached out for it, maybe just to test the waters and see how far he could push without getting stabbed or shot with an arrow.

His fingers closed around a handful of cloth, on Daryl's shoulder; he leaned in closer to inspect the cut. His eyes were focused on the minor wound, and that's why he was totally shocked when Daryl suddenly grunted and flinched back so violently he nearly fell to the side. "Get yer damn hands _off me_!" Everything blurring the second Dale touched him, survival instincts took over whatever reason was left in his mind, and Daryl shoved his hands forward with all his strength, knocking the older man square in the chest and sending him tumbling. Dale hit the gritty pavement on his side, eliciting a pained "oof!" from him as the air was knocked from his lungs. The loud tear of fabric accompanied the unpleasant noises, and as Dale found himself on the ground, lying now on his back, he found his right fist still gripping a large clump of dark brown fabric. Oops.

"Sonofa_bitch_."

His eyes flicked over to the younger man still pressed against the bus, and was rocked even more to see a look of pure horror pasted on Daryl Dixon's face. Not once had Dale _ever _seen him or his brother with any sign of fear crossing their faces the time he'd known them; and even now, the emotion snapped across Daryl's face only a second before replaced with pure, seething rage.

Only, Dale didn't see anger, not this time. Not really. Lucky for the both of them, he thought grimly, that he was the observant type. Because if he hadn't been, he would've been to bewildered to notice how Daryl was glaring at his torn shirt, the useless cloth now hanging off one shoulder with a large chunk taken out the side. And, if he hadn't been as observant as he was, he wouldn't have noticed the white and red lines that absolutely _covered _the young redneck's side, abdomen, chest, and most likely his back. Scars. Hundreds of them, of all sizes; some of them plain white lines, others ugly, knotted skin. They weren't from self-harm, and from the lashed shape of many of them, they weren't from gang fights either.

He swallowed thickly, slowly sitting up. Somehow, Daryl Dixon's attitude didn't seem that outrageous anymore, given new evidence and circumstances.

What seemed like several minutes was only thirty seconds; and when Dale blinked once more, he realized Daryl was storming past him. He cringed for a second, gut actually believing for a second the younger man might stomp on him while he was on the ground; but then he eased up as soon as he was past him. He turned, still seated on the asphalt, and watched Daryl shove his way through the cluttered highway towards the car where he'd dumped his gear. Side still burning and shoulder aching, he slowly got to his feet and stood there a moment, glancing around. Rick didn't come out shouting, nor did Shane come storming forward guns a blazing, ready to send Daryl apacking into the wilderness. Their scuffle must've not been as loud as it had seemed to his ears.

He started towards the RV, limping just the slightest bit, and opened the door. He entered; but he didn't remain inside, where safety and serenity rested for the night. Instead, he danced around the slumbering Andrea, Carol, and Sophia – the poor women were exhausted – and dug around some of his personal things before his fingers touched smooth leather. He grabbed the item, and within seconds was back out in the summer night air, heading over towards where Daryl was shoving his bags around. He was in a new shirt, this one long sleeved, and when he spotted Dale attentively coming closer, he scoffed.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," he muttered, shaking his head. He pointed at Dale without really looking at him. "You're a _real _piece a work, ol' man! Can't believe ya had the balls to come back ta me _again_! Whatta I need to do, _shoot you_?" He returned back to his effort of shoving some of his spare arrows into his backpack.

Dale felt worms crawling in his gut as he watched the other man's activity. "What… what are you doing?"

"What the hells it look like I'm doing?" Daryl grunted as he snapped his backpack shut and grabbed his crossbow. "I'm outta here."

And this could not be allowed. _He _could not allow this. Dale gripped the leather object in his hands tighter, face paling a bit. "You can't just walk away," he tried, cursing himself for being so stupid and getting Daryl's already solid defenses even more raised. "What just happened back there…"

For a second, the younger man almost looked contritely sorry. This theory was backed up when he stared hard at the ground and mumbled, "Didn't mean ta shove ya."

"I'm not _blaming _you, Daryl. I just want to talk."

"Ain't nothin' to talk 'bout," he spat, hoisting his pack onto his shoulders and grabbing his weapon. "And there ain't no reason to stay here neither."

"Well… what about the CDC?" Good grief, was that desperate tone in his voice really there?

"That place is gonna get us nowhere," he stated, shaking his head. He was already walking away, Dale unable to get his feet to move this time.

"Son, you can't just go out there on your own!"

He let out a bitter chuckle. "I'm better on my own!" he called back over his shoulder, though his brain screamed in denial. When had he ever _truly _been completely on his own willingly? Not counting when he was lost. He'd always had Merle. His big brother had been there like a shadow, except for those times the older man had spent locked up, or that one horrid time he'd walked away. Daryl shoved those thoughts back into the dark recesses of his mind. He could make it just fine. Heck, maybe he'd take the back roads into Atlanta and search for his brother again. They had to find each other, they just had to.

Dale, jittery now, shook his head and bit his lip. He had one more shot at getting Dixon to stop moving. "I have a cousin," he called out hesitantly.

_Life story now. Whoopee_. "Good for you," he shot back sardonically, not stopping.

"He has a son…"

"Lucky guy."

"My cousin is not a good man!"

"Ain't no such thing as perfect, sunshine!"

"Daryl!"

"_Daryl_!" he repeated in a squeaky tone. Mimicking was low, really, but he was just so _pissed_ right now…

"My cousin is not a good man to his son," Dale added quickly; cold ice flooding his veins when Daryl suddenly did, in fact, stop walking away. "H-He's not someone I had been proud to call my relation," he continued, fidgeting nervously. "But his son… his son is _innocent_. And he's a decent fellow, and… and…" How exactly was he supposed to continue this? _Damn_. He really had to think things out more thoroughly. Tense, he stared at Daryl's back for several minutes, before he finally got a reply.

"Ain't no such thing as decent, ol' man."

Okay. So he wasn't running off yet. He could still fix this whole disaster, the disaster that he'd gotten involved with the first time he started watching the Dixon brothers. "That's not true," he said slowly, lowering his gaze. "That's not true; but I don't think you realize that. But you should. You _need _to realize that… that the world wasn't, isn't, all bad." _I don't think you know that, do you? _"You can't walk away. Not now. You're… you're a part of this now, Daryl, and you're a part of it with _us_. This group… _your _group."

"I ain't a part of any group," was the snappish reply as Daryl spun around on his heels. "All these people are _your _problem, they ain't mine! I can go wherever I damn please!" Realizing that Dale wasn't going to say anymore, that he was waiting for Daryl to do some thinking of his own for a moment, snapped a fuse. Suddenly, somehow, he had his crossbow in his hands, an bolt knocked in the string, and he was charging forward with his weapon raised level with that old bastard's chest. "I could kill you right now, you know that?!" he all but screamed, an enraged shout that seemed to morph into a request to just be left alone. He marched over to the older man and shoved the arrow right against that stupid Hawaiian shirt. "You don't know anything about me," he snarled, eyes flashing. "You and your silly stories of daddies and victims… you don't know nothin'!"

Dale swallowed, allowing himself to eye the crossbow fearfully for a moment before shoving his concerns away. He'd watched Daryl, and he knew, somehow, that the trigger wouldn't be pulled. Daryl was not Merle. He was not his violent, asshole brother, even if no one – even Daryl – could not see that. "Son… why do you keep trying to fight the world?" he whispered, very slowly, making eye contact and holding it

The other man tensed, his eyes sparking as he glared at him. Dale watched, and swallowed again when he saw some of the fury façade melt away under the unmistakable glimmering sheen he saw in the younger man's eyes.

Daryl shoved the arrow tip so that it was pressing against Dale's chest.

"Cause all this world's ever done is fight _me_."

And with that, the crossbow was dropped low as Daryl turned on his heels and walked away.

However, for some reason, when Dale readied the group to leave, he spotted Daryl only a few feet away, perched on Merle's old motorcycle and ready to lead the others through the crazy maze of a highway.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So, this chapter takes place ****_after _****the group leaves the CDC at the end of Season 1, and before the first episode of Season 2. Most of it is based off a deleted scene that you can watch on Season 2's DVD special features or probably YouTube. Check it out. It's awesome. This chapter was much longer, ****_too _****long actually, so I cut it in half.**

* * *

><p>It was quiet. That was the only word that he could use to describe the present situation. Creepy, as well, along with exhausting and stressed and anxious; but quiet fit the best, because it was complete silence as everybody filed into the abandoned retirement home, pulling up old sofa cushions and thin, medical mattresses to sleep on. He doubted anyone would be getting any actual sleep except for the children, however. The air stank to heavily of death and rot, and the building simply did <em>not <em>seem _safe_. When Rick Grimes had led them all here, he'd claimed it was, along with Glenn, T-Dog, and even Daryl had given his silent nod of approval. "They're our friends," Glenn had stated confidentially, speaking highly of the small gang they had met in Atlanta. "They'll take us in."

But it hadn't been safe. The old people who had once lived here, along with the group of men that had been protecting them, were all gone by the time they arrived. Looking around now, the windows were still smeared with blood and gore, the floors stained permanently, and Dale shuddered. Rick had described this place as almost… normal. As if the apocalypse had never touched it. Now…

And after what had just happened at the CDC…

"I'm going to check on the others," he declared, shouldering his rifle. "Be back in a bit." Lori gave him a nod, and he left the room and drifted towards where he could hear increasingly rising voices coming from a place that had once been a recreational center, with nice tables and a stage in the center. Now, the furniture was smashed, and corpses were piled up in one corner, the faces of the old people still frozen in horror. He bowed his head away from the grisly sight, and instead turned to find the reason for the near-shouts coming from his comrades.

He wasn't surprised to see Daryl was the center of attention this time, and the foul twist in his gut grew when he noticed the young redneck was clashing heads with Andrea. The woman's pain was clouded at the moment by snippy sarcasm, and he stopped in the middle of his stride to avoid coming in between the argument.

"Are ya all dumb or somethin'?" Daryl was snapping, shouldering his crossbow. "Let's all try to be a bit _observant_, shall we?" He looked purely disgusted and exasperated, while Rick and T-Dog glanced at each other in innocent confusion.

Andrea snorted, crossing her arms, rolling her eyes. "_Observant_. Wow, that's a big word for the likes of you. Three whole syllables." Almost everyone winced at the insult, 'specially Dale, knowing that the Dixon brother wouldn't take kindly to once again hearing the usual 'dumb redneck' remarks that came his way. He watched Daryl bristle, but surprisingly, the younger man reeled himself in enough so that he didn't immediately go on the defensive. Instead, he pointed his finger at several of the bodies, choosing to make his point rather than defend his dignity at the moment.

"Did any of ya stupid city folk take care ta notice the headshots in all these bodies?" Daryl demanded, sneering. "Any of ya 'detectives' realize that all these people weren't bit? Na, these poor saps were shot, execution style. Somebody came in 'ere and shot 'em all up, then took whatever they wanted. The geeks came in _afterwards_." He glanced at Rick Grimes, who was actually nodding in approval at his work – Daryl felt red creeping up his neck at how impressed the former sheriff's deputy looked – and turned to glare at Andrea. "Gid a dictionary," he scoffed at her. "Look it up. _Observant_." He jabbed a finger to his temple, to his brain, to prove his point, and then stormed out of the room.

Dale took time to try and catch Andrea's eye; but as soon as she noticed him, she looked away, gliding over to one corner of the room to drown in her misery. He was tempted to follow her… but that would no doubt make things worse. She was still angry with him, no doubt. _Understand_, he silently pleaded with her, though knowing it would do no good. The mental wounds the group had suffered in Atlanta, escaping the Center for Disease Control, they were still too fresh. He slipped out of the room quietly, unnoticed by Rick or the others, and trailed after the one problem that had emerged before losing Jacqui and their new doctor acquaintance at the CDC; a problem he still had some sort of grip on. Kind of. Not really.

He still wandered around until he'd found Daryl anyway, the younger man kicking a walker that had already been dispatched of. Watching the man's boots sink into the putrid, liquefying flesh, made his stomach churn, and he cleared his throat in order to stop the action. "Calm down, son, that's not helping anyone," he spoke up, using the same words he'd used back at the quarry camp, when Daryl had been attacking the limp corpse that had ruined his freshly caught deer. Of course, that time Daryl had taken the advice sourly and had charged right up to his face so that Shane and Rick had to push him back.

At least this time the archer controlled himself enough so that he merely shot a deathly glare in the older man's direction. "Fuck off," he snarled; but he shoved the walker corpse out of the way and proceeded to march down the hallway.

"Daryl, wait," he called after him, moving into a light jog so that he could catch up with him. "Just… just hold up a sec."

Sure enough, he got what he asked for. Daryl came to a sudden halt and spun around so that he was right in his face, Dale's chest crashing into his own as Daryl's forehead touched his own in an intimidating manner. "What. Do. You. Want?" he growled, blue eyes sparking. "Why don't ya just _leave_ me be?"

Dale took a moment to swallow and collect himself. "You want me to leave you alone," he said evenly. "But Daryl… I'm not going to do that until you _talk_."

The other man backed off slightly, breathing hard, eyeballing the elder and searching his face for… what? Did he expect Dale to suddenly shed this concerned personae and bare his teeth at him? Was he waiting for Dale to snap out of his fatherly worries and to shove him away, resent him, write him off as some worthless hillbilly with a crossbow as so many other had? Dale had the sickening feeling this was so, and so before Daryl could throw another fit, he decided to leap ahead of the situation. "I'm not here to be a pain in the ass," he stated firmly, deciding to use one of his rare moments of profanity in hopes of keeping Dixon's attention. "I'm here because… because I want to _help _you."

Daryl's face was stone; confused, completely caught off guard, stone. "What makes ya think I _want _any of your help?"

Okay, now here was his chance to fix things before they got too out of hand. "I'm… sorry… about your brother, Daryl," he stated, making sure to keep eye contact, making sure to show just how sincere he was. Because he was almost positive that not one person – the exception being maybe Rick – had bothered to sympathize with Daryl for the loss of Merle. Instead, there had been complaints about how useless it had been to go back for the oldest Dixon, even with Daryl still in earshot. Thinking 'bout it now, Dale realized with regret that he should've spoken up sooner; he kept his resolve firm now as faced Daryl. "I know not a lot of us have said it," he continued. "A-And I know that while he wasn't the most… likable… of the group, that he was your brother. And now he's gone. So, so I'm sorry for that, Daryl, and I'm sorry I hadn't said it any sooner."

Now he waited. Waited and watched while Daryl continued staring at him like he was some paranormal essence, or some ticking time bomb getting ready to blow up in his face. His gaze was untrusting, suspicious… confused. "Ya'll ain't sorry for nothin'," he spat, though his voice wasn't very loud or too intimidating this time. "Said so yourselves – my brother ain't worth shit, even with a bag full of _guns _thrown in."

Dale winced as the younger man threw Lori Grimes' words back at him, clearly remembering how the desperate wife had been trying to convince Rick to stay at camp, that going back to look for Merle and the guns he'd left in Atlanta wasn't worth it. He opened his mouth to say so, to explain that Lori hadn't meant that; but he couldn't, because he wasn't blind to the way the others held the Dixon brothers in their eyes. Troublemakers. Unpredictable. _Dangerous_.

"I can't speak for every one of them in there," he said slowly, pointing down the hall to where the group was located. "But, I am speaking for _myself_ when I say that I really am _sorry _that you lost your brother, Daryl." He paused. "And… I'm _grateful_ that you stayed."

Sharp blue eyes narrowed, so Dale hurried. "You saved Shane's life earlier today," he pointed out, ignoring how the young redneck rolled his eyes. "When we stopped to siphon gas earlier… if you hadn't warned us all, we'd never have known that herd was coming. Shane would've been caught out there, and who _knows _who we would've lost."

Daryl shifted his weight from one foot to the other, obviously getting agitated and uncomfortable. Dale couldn't help but notice just how skittish the youngest Dixon was. "If ya think I'm gonna keep on playing momma for all ya blind pussies, your _wrong_."

"I'm not _asking _you to do anything," Dale replied. "And I hadn't earlier, either, but you still saved Shane and you still helped get the group through Atlanta earlier. Daryl, I'm _thanking_ you. For staying with us and for _helping _us, even when I know you don't think you have a place here. But son… you _do_."

Once again, the archer turned away his gaze, staring at a small hole in the floor, obviously wondering whether to lash out or simply walk away. Walking away. Dale wondered why Daryl hadn't last night, but knew enough not to ask at the moment.

"Ya _do _realize I threatened ta _shoot _ya not long ago, don't ya?"

Dale's lips twitched upwards a bit. "No. I don't seem to recall that at all. Must be my memory slipping."

"Back at the CDC, I tried ta ax that doc's head off. Would've too, if Rick Grimes hadn't got in the way."

"We were all scared. We all thought we'd be incinerated – heat of the moment. Who knows? Maybe, if I'd had a weapon at the time, I wouldn't have held back. Maybe I would've done just what you and Shane had done – threaten to kill that man if he hadn't let us out of the building."

Once again, the other man's expression was incredulous. He pointed an accusing, disbelieving finger in his direction. "Your one stupid sonabitch," he stated, taking a step forward.

"And I'm proud of it," Dale countered, smiling openly now. His mind flashed back to images of scars and threats and hurt from a few nights ago, and his gaze softened. "I know you're not used to this whole 'playing with others' stuff, but… you're doing a decent job at it, honestly." He rushed before he could be protested. "You act like you don't care, Daryl, but… I can't make myself believe that's true." He thought back to the brief night of relaxation they had had at the CDC, the entire group around one large table, drinking and stuffing themselves and joking. And Daryl, sitting in the corner, getting up and joking with Glenn Likesportal, grinning, laughing, speaking openly to Rick and Shane and T-Dog without that wary glimmer in his eyes. It had probably been the alcohol that had shot down the man's guard for the night; but it had been pleasant. He wondered if they would ever all be that comfortable with each other's presence again. Hadn't helped that after that night, Daryl had tried to take out the CDC doctor's head with both a bottle of whiskey and an ax later on. He'd also snapped quite harshly at Sophia for crying while clearing out the retirement center, putting the girl's mother and Lori on edge, and he'd butted heads with Andrea; but then again, heat of the moment Dale reminded himself.

His fingers fiddled with the hem of his Hawaiian shirt as he let a brief moment of silence clear the air of some of the tension; the atmosphere was thick, yes, but at least this talk seemed to be going relatively better than the one back on the highway. He suddenly remembered he'd wanted to give something, a peace offering, to the younger man; but then realized that going back to the room with the others than coming back would just make things more tense, and let it go for now. It could wait. For now, he decided maybe they should end this before Daryl ran off again. "We _need _you," he stated as he turned to rejoin the others, deciding not to lock eyes this time, just to let his words hang in the space between them. "Believe it or not, we _do_." He chewed on his lip, taking a moment to brace himself before adding, "The others are starting to realize it too. You're… you're not your brother, Daryl. You a decent man."

He didn't wait to get yelled at or shot with a crossbow bolt; he spun on his heels and walked down the hall, head bowed, feeling Daryl's piercing gaze on his back the entire time.

When he reentered the room, he noticed everyone was already seated. He plopped himself down, quite near a depressed Andrea but not close enough so that she could snap at him for it, and waited. Stared at the doorway until, 'bout five minutes later, Daryl came strolling through, heading immediately for a distant corner. Dale made sure to turn away at the right moment so that it wouldn't be noticed he'd been staring, trying hard not to look relieved that the other man had showed off at all. _He hasn't left yet_, he told himself gratefully, letting his eyes slip closed for a moment._ Kind of tells you he won't be leaving at all_. It was rather comforting to know, because he knew despite past problems, at this moment this group needed to start getting real, _real _serious about survival; and something told him that nobody knew how to survive the harshest things the world threw at them more than Daryl Dixon.

He reopened his eyes to see Shane handing out chips and little scoops of canned beans to everyone. When the dark-haired man also pulled out a bottle of cheap wine, everyone perked up a bit. Even Daryl, who had unconsciously seated himself quite near him and Rick, hesitated before smirking at the former cop. "That ta share?"

Apparently, he wasn't the only one who wanted to the pleasing atmosphere that being shitfaced drunk had brought back at the CDC.

Shane stared at the other man for a long moment, gaze hard and judging; before something warmed up on his expression, and he actually grinned at the redneck he hadn't trusted at any length 'till now. "Y' know what?" he said, chuckling. "You saved my life earlier, so I'm gonna be nice to ya from now on." And he tossed the bottle over, Daryl took it, and the pair each gave a half-nod. Apology and acceptance in one small gesture, like when GI's would share a cigarette on the battlefield. Dale noticed Rick was grinning too, and the atmosphere wasn't as intimidating as before. Still frightening, seeing how they were still in this ruined, unsafe building in a walker infested city. But at least the danger between the group members was quickly beginning to dissipate.

He took some plates of food from Shane and began helping to hand them out. When he reached to Andrea, who looked up at him coldly, he braced himself for the second problem to come his way.

Funny how redneck Daryl Dixon could be easier to deal with than this woman here. Yet he crouched down before her anyway.

* * *

><p>"WAKE UP! EVERYBODY, WAKE UP! GET UP! <em>GET UP<em>!"

Glenn's panicked shouts – no, _screams_ – awoke everyone simultaneously. Daryl, always having been a light sleeper, snapped his eyes open after the first call and was already out the door by the time Rick was standing, his crossbow loaded with a bolt. He sprinted out into the hall, towards the staircase where Glenn must've been on watch; and then stopped short, eyes widening. "Aw, _SHIT_!"

Glenn had his hands on a thick piece of piping and was whacking walker heads left and right, the steps already slick with gore; yet the effort was clearly wasted because everyone time one of the geeks disappeared, two more showed up in its place.

Daryl launched an arrow into the skull of the one nearest before leaping forward, slamming his knife into another head, sinking the blade in all the way to the hilt. "Gawdamnit, kid, how the _hell _did this happen?!" he shouted above the groans and commotion polluting the air.

"They all just appeared out of nowhere!" Glenn defended himself. "I was on watch, and I _was watching_, I swear! They all must've pushed through the doors downstairs."

"And ya didn't hear 'em? Didn't smell 'em? Jesus Christ, Glenn, what the hell?!"

By now, everyone else was pouring out to see what was happening – he heard screams from that girl Sophia and cries of outrage and exasperation from Rick and Shane. They were running forward, pistols thundering; he did a quick check over the situation and then grabbed the Asian kid's arm. "Ain't no use stayin' out here, there's too many!" They ran back towards the room, Daryl waving his arms at Shane and Rick. "Git 'em all back in there!" he shouted. "Go! Git back in the room!"

They hesitated, brains scrambled and still fogged from sleep, and then leapt into action. They began shoving the others back in the room, and as soon as Daryl and Glenn launched themselves through the doorway, the door was slammed shut and people began wildly piling furniture in front of it. Almost five seconds after they got it locked, five walkers slammed themselves against the thick wood and glass; and then there were ten, twenty, probably thirty.

Shane was wildly slamming things around, searching for a way out while cursing his head off. Sophia was in her mother's arms, Carol clinging to the girl, while Lori kept Carl nearby with Andrea near her. He caught Dale's gaze, the old man's eyes wide with fear and anxiety, and then when he looked at Rick, Glenn, T-Dog, and Shane, they all simultaneously glanced at the creaking door.

No _way _was that shit gonna hold.

"We gotta get out of here!" Shane hollered, dashing towards the other door nearby, jumping back and exclaiming "SHIT!" when more walkers slammed themselves against it from the outside.

He couldn't help let his eyes scan each face in the room, the same faces that he'd found smiling and laughing and actually pleasant back in the CDC. The kids, Carl and Sophia, were clinging to their mothers, the girl's face marked with tears; he once again found himself looking at Dale, whose calm composure was falling to pieces, revealing panic and fear.

And gawdamnit, he wasn't gonna let the old bastard and all these pussies die, not here, not now, not like this.

_"__We need you. Believe it or not, we do. The others are starting to realize it too."_

Not once in his life, not ask a child nor as an adult, had he ever been _needed _for nothing more than hunting for their families food or being on the receiving end of his father's drunken rage. It was a foreign concept to him; and hell, if this wasn't just the perfect time to test Dale's theory.

He threw himself forward, pushed himself through the others and leapt onto the coffee table, using that as leverage to jump even higher onto the bookshelf near the window. He balanced on that, teetering dangerously, his years of hunting experience clicking into place as he swung his crossbow forward, smashing the glass, everyone crying out at the loud, frightful noise that was added to the walkers' symphony outside.

Daryl, still perched on the bookshelf, craned his neck around and jerked his head at Rick, who was watching him with wide eyes. "Rick Grimes, toss me those sofa cushions! Gonna git ourselves the hell outta here!"

Rick moved into action, Andrea even managing to snap herself out of her daze long enough to throw three long, plush cushions in his direction. He grabbed 'em and dropped them out the window. It would soften their fall yes; but damn them for choosing the second floor to camp out on. The grassy ground was littered with junk and debris; if they missed the cushions and landed on some shit piece of metal…

Carol and Lori were already lining them and their kids to go first, but Shane stopped them. "Me and T-Dog are going down first," he declared. "Get some cover on the ground 'fore ya send those kids." He waited for Daryl to jump off the shelf, and then scampered up it himself, rifle in hand. He poised himself, gritting his teeth, and then let himself fall out in a freefall.

Everyone held their breaths. The doors creaked ominously.

Shane's voice came through moments later. "A'right, Tee, get your ass down here!"

T-Dog went out next, and they heard rifle shots as they two took down any walkers nearby outside. "Send Carl now!" Shane called next. "And Lori!"

Rick watched his wife and son climb up, and took the time to toss a nod in Daryl's direction. "Quick thinking," he added to the approving motion. Shane's words of 'danger' and 'unreliability' could go to hell; Daryl Dixon had a temper but was the man they needed at this point.

Daryl heard the words and ducked his head, Dale's words ringing teasingly in his head. _Fuck if Merle were watchin' now…_ His brother had never enjoyed the company of others unless they had a well-stocked stash of coke somewhere on 'em. He'd never let Daryl be in the company of others either.

Sophia was on the windowsill now; but when Shane ordered her to jump, she shook her head and whimpered, looking over her shoulder at Carol. "Go, baby, I'll be right behind you," the mother pleaded. The little blonde whimpered and shook her head. "Sophia, you have ta jump!" Shane shouted again, standing on the grass with his arms spread out in case the girl missed the cushions.

"Guys, hurry!" Glenn cried out from where he was guarding the doors, firearm trembling slightly in his hands.

"Sophia, jump!" Rick shouted, moving over to help the girl out.

There was a crashing noise from the side, causing Daryl to jump as Rick screamed, "JUMP!"

The side door was completely gone, burst to splinters by the dozen of walkers that were suddenly all over the place. Carol screamed, Rick fired his Python, Glenn stumbled backwards but let his heavy rifle rip. Almost all of the monsters made their way for the girl silhouetted against the moonlight on the window. She screamed, but still didn't move.

_Fuck it. _Daryl once again found himself rushing forward, downing one walker before he bounced off the table. He didn't bother reaching for the bookshelf this time; instead, he thrust his arms out and sailed right out the fuckin' window, Sophia pressed against her chest and screeching at the top of her lungs.

Midair he managed to turn so that she wouldn't bear the brunt of the impact; which was good, because his wild fly out the building really hadn't given him time to aim, and he missed the cushions – and Shane – entirely. He hit the dirt, missing a pile of scrap metal by inches, the force pushing all the air out of his lungs, the back of his head slamming against the hard, unforgiving ground. Lack of breath didn't stop the audible "Fuck!" that escaped his lips, nor did the blow to his cranium drown out Carol's petrified scream of "SOPHIA!" or the other cusses escaping Shane and T-Dog's mouths as they rushed over to them. They yanked Sophia off him first, giving him time to wince and catch his breath before Shane grabbed his hand and pulled him unsteadily to his feet. "Shit, man," was all the former deputy had to say; but Daryl could've sworn the other man was managing a shaky, inane grin despite their situation. He slapped him on the back, and seeing as he was still too dazed to flinch away as he normally would, he allowed the rare display of appreciation. Didn't change anything, he told himself. _Tried _to tell himself.

It was only when Shane moved away and he blinked several times did he realize everyone else was now on ground level, Sophia clinging to Carol as everyone tried to figure out what to do. Ears ringing a bit, Daryl shook his head to clear it a bit, and thus did not notice everyone was moving until Dale grabbed his arm. "Son, we've gotta go," he said, voice hasty, shoving him forward. "Everyone to the RV!"

They all ran, gunning down nearing walkers as Dale ushered everyone into his beloved vehicle. Rick and Shane entered first, yanking open the windows a bit so that they could cover the others as they were crammed into the tin can with wheels. Daryl hesitated before entering, the place looked so jam packed with people that he wondered for a moment if he'd be better off just taking his chances on the roof; but Dale pushed him in before he could make up his mind and that was that.

Eight people packed inside the RV like sardines, along with a buttload of random boxes of crap they'd picked up along the way, half of it not even useful.

It was going to be a long night.


	4. Chapter 4

It was too crowded; that much was clear as soon as he was pressed up against Rick and T-Dog in the small RV. And when Dale finally shut the doors, just in time as three walkers slammed against it soon after, the older man's back was right in his face.

There was a reason he went off hunting alone, sometimes gone for days; and it wasn't just for the food. The forest was probably the best home he'd ever had; the solitude, the silence, a wonderful sensation when compared to the violence and commotion of his childhood – and only – home. When Merle wanted to get away from it all, he'd get high than spend some alone time locked up behind bars; Daryl, he would just escape into the woods behind his house, crossbow and some sandwiches all he carried with him as he'd spend days, maybe a full week, sleeping in trees and shootin' squirrels. He hadn't ever _truly _been alone, 'cause after a while Merle would always come finding him, or he'd run into some neighbors or fellow hunters – not that he was buddies with any of 'em – but he'd take whatever feigned sense of solitude he could get. _"I'm better on my own!" _he'd told Dale. It'd been a half lie, half-truth. He was rather used to being with just Merle; he had no idea if that made him any better or not.

At the moment, he'd give anything to get out of this damn RV and back out into the open air, geeks or not. Because there was the breath of five different people raising the hairs on his neck, and there was not a _single _inch of him that wasn't being pressed against something. Or someone. He looked around desperately, squirming. It was pitch black in there, and he could really only see the tip of Dale's hat in front of him, and the gleam of Rick's old police badge beside him. He could hear whispers all over though, Sophia's little sobs, what sounded like Lori talking to Carl, and Rick was conversing with Shane. Maybe the claustrophobic atmosphere wouldn't have been too bad if the entire back of the RV wasn't stuffed with supplies and suitcases – most of it junk too, like extra clothes and non-essentials people had dragged from various scavenging sites. Books and crap. Hell, Daryl only had the clothes on his back presently, and he mentally cursed anyone who had dared to take up precious space with their loafers and paperback issue of _Lord of the Rings_. Or whatever shit these people read.

He tried to get himself more elbow room, but only succeeded in jarring Shane in the ribs and kicking Dale where the sun didn't shine. Perfect. He had absolutely no-fucking-where to go, and he wasn't sure how long he could take having a group of total strangers touching him all over, even if it was unintentional and just with knees and forearms. _Shit, shit, shit_. He tried ducking his head lower, seeing if he could maybe make it to the dashboard where he could just perch up there; but there was the driver's chair was in the way. _Shit, shit, shit_. Already the air inside the RV stank of sweat and dirt, and it made the chips and beans they'd had for dinner roll queasily in his stomach.

T-Dog, who was pressed up against his left shoulder, looked him over with lack of anything better to do. "Man, you okay?" he whispered, his breath hot against his ear.

He managed to send a glare his way, though turning his head proved difficult. " 'm fine, just too gawdamn tight 'n here," he growled, fidgeting.

Behind him, Rick's voice suddenly rang out – quietly, but with the confined space, it seemed to boom. "Lori, get Carl, Sophia, and Carol, and see if four can make it to the bathroom. Try to give the kids some more space."

"Got it," Mrs. Grimes replied, and soon enough there were the sounds of shuffling feet and moans from those that they had to climb over and push past to get to their destination. "Everyone else," Rick continued. "Let's try to make this work. We'll probably have to spend the night like this, least 'till we're sure the walkers have wandered off."

That brought a whole chorus of groans and complaints, and the sounds made Daryl's head swim. Didn't help the killer headache he had going on either; he could feel the bump rising from where he'd hit the ground, and his right shoulder throbbed right where Shane's back was pressed against it. He was barely aware of Rick telling Andrea to hop onto the table, he was trying to focus on not completely blacking out at the moment. He sure as hell wasn't 'bout to drop down right in the midst of all these people, who'd have to catch him and haul him somewhere where he wouldn't be smothered; he wasn't no pussy, and he took several deep breaths, managing to get his arms free enough so that he could press his palms against his eye sockets. Damn, his forehead was already dripping with sweat, and he wondered if they'd left the windows open, because the air tasted stale and rancid in his mouth.

"Daryl?"

He merely hummed in reply, not bothering to try and figure out who dared to talk to him because his head hurt too much. Fuck, he couldn't even tell if it was a man or one of the women talking to him.

"Daryl?" the voice repeated. "Are you alright?" There was shifting in front of him, and he could sense eyes staring at him even with his own face covered by his hands. He could always tell when someone was staring at him; it'd happened to him often enough.

When he failed to answer, there was more rustling; and then the air seemed a bit clearer directly in front of him. A hand grabbed his shoulder; he jerked away, but there really was nowhere for him to go, and he couldn't really stop the hand from leading him forward, where space seemed to have just magically appeared. He nearly tripped when the floor suddenly dived downward; the hand steadied him and pushed him down. The small three-step stairway in front of the door, that's where he was. He was now sitting on the lip just below the floor level, and whoever had led him there was now crouched down next to him, thick but gentle hands running through his hair. He jerked away, but the hands kept feeling for bumps and bleeding, and the voice hushed him. "You have a pretty nasty bump here, son. Just try to relax – I'm just making sure you have nothing more serious than a nasty headache."

So it was Dale. Of course it was Dale. The older man seemed to be completely obsessed with making Daryl Dixon his new fix-it project; irritated, he once again tried to flinch away, but the old geezer was horribly persistent. He ran his hands through sweaty, dirty locks of blonde hair until he was satisfied the younger man hadn't cracked his skull; then, and only then, did he pull away and lean back to look the archer in the eyes. "You alright, Daryl?" he asked softly. At least the man knew enough to not make a scene.

"Said 'fore, I'm _fine_," he huffed in reply, taking deep breaths, tryingto straighten his posture and regain his composure. _C'mon, Dixon, man up! Merle'd kick your _ass _if he saw ya like this, fussed over like some kinda chick bitch. Get a _grip_._

Dale, thank god, seem to get the message in his words and glare, and backed off a bit. He sat down on the nearby sofa, directly across from him, and then they both waited in heavy silence as Shane and Rick talked to each other nearby. Daryl lowered his forehead to his knees, slowly ebbing away the ache in his head. The extra space helped too; and he pondered whether he should be thanking Dale for the extra room or not. Probably. But it'd been so long since he'd been in a situation where manners had been appropriate that he couldn't bring himself to say it. Actually, thinking back on it now, the last time he'd thanked the bartender at his usual pub, the man had taken it as sarcasm and he'd gotten a splendid bruised jaw. Then, he'd been a dumbass and had gone tellin' Merle, who'd shoved him into a bookshelf for being a "pussie with her pansies in a twist."

Nah. No need to thank Dale and risking all sorts of problems; he was sure the man was already filled to the brim with others' gratitude anyway. What the hell would an awkward thank you from some stupid redneck be to him in the first place?

He was snapped out of his mental monologue by the realization that Rick was standing over him, calling his name. He looked up, cocking an eyebrow at the older man. "What?"

Rick jerked his head over towards where Shane was waiting, pressed against the RV wall, arms crossed. "We were just wonderin' whether ya managed to catch a glance at the road goin' north while you were leadin' us on your bike earlier."

He had. "Yeah, got myself an eyeful. Watcha want ta know for?"

Rick crouched down, his back pressed against the back of T-Dog's knees but not seeming fazed by the uncomfortable position. Heck, he was a cop, probably used to stake outs in tight places. "We can't stay in Atlanta, that much is obvious to us all," the man said stated, casting another glance back at his partner. "Shane thinks our next best bet is Fort Benning, up north quite a ways. Think we can take the road outta Atlanta and get there if ya keep leadin' us on your bike?"

It took a moment for him to realize Rick was asking his opinion, asking him to keep leading the group on the roads, trusting him to get them the hundred or so miles to Fort Benning. Clearing his throat, he looked at Shane, who was also waiting for an answer, and then he glanced at Dale, who gave him a barely noticeable smile. The old coot looked as if he'd known all along that Rick would come to him, sly bastard.

Still, he wasn't _completely _peeved as he looked up at Rick and gave a small, affirmative nod. "Yeah. I can git ya'll there."

Rick actually flashed a smile in his direction, one had quickly patting his shoulder. "I appreciate all your help, Daryl." He didn't say more, but his eyes continued on. _We got off on the wrong foot at the quarry; I hope we can move past all that now._

Nothing changed the fact that Rick Grimes had left his brother on a rooftop in the walker infested city. Nor did it quell the wretched assumption that the former deputy might do the same thing to _him_, should a problem within the group arise. But, maybe just a bit, a little of Daryl's contempt towards the other man cracked open. He shrugged. "Shit's all passed, now. No need to bring back up all that crap."

Rick looked almost relieved at the words, and smiled again before standing up, shoving his way past the others to Shane.

Daryl went back to resting his head on his knees, avoiding Dale's twinkling gaze, and conjuring up a picture of Merle in his mind. _Rick may have been the one to handcuff ya ta that roof_, he told his brother's image. _But ya probably asked for it, ya asshole. _

Funny. The RV didn't seem so small anymore.

* * *

><p>He saw Rick again in the morning, after the walkers had gone off and the group was able to stumble out of the RV and stretch their legs. The former sheriff's deputy had a knowing smirk on his face as he waved the younger man over. "Daryl! Wait up!"<p>

The redneck stopped from where he was heading back towards the abandoned retirement home. "Be back in a sec," he replied, on hand on the knife hanging from his hip. "Somethin' I gotta do."

"Place is full of walkers," Rick warned, shifting the duffle bag he was carrying off his shoulder. "You, uh, ya might wanna rethink headin' back in there."

"Left somethin'," he answered simply. "Gotta go back. I got it covered."

The other man nodded, saying nothing until Daryl had turned back around. Then, "Well, if you're gonna do it, might as well be armed with more than just thet huntin' knife." The sound of something unzipping, the bag, and then the rustle of metal against thick, heavy cloth as something was extracted from said-bag. "Might as well take this with ya."

He turned, expecting the cop's gleaming silver Colt – instead, he laid eyes on his crossbow, the surface more spotless than it had been in a _long _time. Rick held it out and he grabbed it greedily, corner of his lips twitching upward as he examined his weapon. When had been the first time he'd ever held its weight in his hands? He couldn't remember, he'd used the thing since he was eight; and to feel its smoothness once more against the callouses of his hands took away some of the exposed nakedness he'd been feeling all morning.

"T-Dog picked it up after you dropped it ta jump out that window," Rick explained, smiling slightly. "Sophia… she cleaned it all up for ya last night as a sort of thank you." A pause. "You saved her life. She and Carol… they're grateful to you. We all are."

The man looked so sincere, as if he were not just showing thanks but also trying to make amends for the rift between them. As if he were trying to create some sort of bridge between them, no matter how small or unsteady. Drawing on each other, the judgment, the pointless hostility… Rick wanted that to end, right now. Maybe because he'd saved Shane yesterday, or because of his quick thinking with the window and Sophia last night… whatever the reason, Daryl saw the wary ice vanish from Rick's eyes, replaced by…. Something. He wasn't sure what, but it didn't hold any threat. Yet. "I've been thinking," Rick said. " 'bout how we started off at the camp." _With Merle_, he didn't add. "We… I… got off to a bad start. We handled things the wrong way, and I think that, given the circumstances, we can't risk any more tension, especially not among ourselves."

He wasn't sure what to say in reply, so he just grunted, "No shit," and then lowered his gaze, spitting at the ground.

There was another brief moment of silence before Rick ducked his head down and reclaimed eye contact. "Regardless of what's happened in the past, in order to survive, we _need _you." A hand was stuck out. "And I hope, after everything that's happened…." His voice trailed off.

Daryl stared at the hand for a few moments, Rick's word sinking into his head. Rick Grimes actually saying he _needed _Daryl Dixon? Once again, he thought back to Dale's words, and pondered on them. He'd never gotten along well with cops – his father and brother's reputations had spread through their entire Georgian neighborhood – and even though all the shit had hit the fan, the awkwardness churning in his gut hadn't eased up. _You locked Merle onto a rooftop and left him there to die_, he accused with a tiny glare, trying to justify the weakening fury that was quickly dying inside him. Trying to convince himself that he couldn't be friends with this man, this man who'd pretty much _killed _his brother, his blood, the only man he could ever count on.

But reason wormed its way to the front of his mind. Merle had it coming. The group really couldn't take anymore tension. And Rick Grimes was… not exactly growing on him… but he wasn't irritating the crap out of him either.

_"__Cause all this world's ever done is fight _me_."_

That's what he'd told Dale once. So how could he be sure that Rick Grimes wasn't the same as everyone else he'd ever met? Unreliable? Always hurtful, always painfully undependable?

He must've taken too long to respond, because Rick held his hand forward more. "I'm not asking us to be best buddies or anything," he added. "But I want ta give working together a chance. Are you on board with that?"

He couldn't very well say no, could he? Slowly, hesitantly, he took the man's hand and they shook. "Yeah… we're okay."

Rick's smile broadened into a grateful grin. "I appreciate that," he said sincerely. "We all do." He dropped his hand. "So… I'm guessing you won't be needin' to go back in there now?"

"Reckon not," he replied, snorting. "Best go get the bike out 'ere then."

Rick nodded at him, looking pleased and relieved. Daryl watched him go, allowing the other man to walk about three steps away before he finally managed to call out, "Yo, Rick?"

The deputy turned, eyebrow raised in question.

_Damn stupid conscience_. "He stared at the ground, fingers fiddling with the crossbow as he looked for any real damage. There was none. "Erm… thanks," he finally coughed out, inwardly cringing as he waited for the mocking laughter or cussing. He doubted Rick would resort to blows, but it was always a possibility, no matter how small. He could almost hear Merle laughing in his ear, cussing his "wussy ass of a brother".

But Rick, instead of looking bewildered or scoffing, beamed even brighter. "Your welcome," he stated. "And thanks to you too, Daryl."

He wasn't sure how to deal with this new, unexpected response, so he once again spat at the ground and chose silence. Even when Rick walked off and he was left alone standing by the broken brick wall, it took him a few minutes to clear his head and wander over to where his bike – Merle's bike, actually – was still parked, untouched by walkers.

Preparations were being made as the morning dragged on. The smile was swept off Rick's face as he wandered off to talk into that radio of his, hopin' against hope that there was a man listening on the other end. Every time Daryl looked up while prepping the bike, Rick was crouched on some rooftop with the walkie talkie, and Shane kept shooting looks at both his partner and Lori Grimes. As he rode out towards the front of the group, Merle's bike humming beneath him, he caught a glances of Carol and Sophia, the little girl staring at him with an unreadable expression. He stared right back, ignoring Rick finally joining his family. He continued staring until he pulled up in front of the RV, where Dale was waiting for him with some kind of leathery bunch of cloth in his hands. Thinking back on it now, the coot had been holding that same thing the night he'd almost sho… the night they'd had their 'heated discussion'. He slammed the brakes and waited for the older man to jog over.

Dale glanced the archer up and down before clearing his throat. "So, um, you're our official trail blazer, then," he remarked, trying to sound lighthearted despite the fact that the entire group was wired. His face drooped and darkened as he cast a wary glance at the road ahead. "Do you think we'll make it all the way to Fort Benning? Shane's determined to, but Rick is still worried about all the dangers on the highways…"

"I'll get ya there," Daryl interrupted, chewing on his lower lip as he straightened on the bike. "Don't ya worry 'bout any of 'em _dangers_. I'll tell ya 'fore they get anywhere near us."

He got nodding in reply, wrinkled fingers nervously twisting the leather thing. "I, uh, I also wanted to, well, to give you this." He held the cloth out, eyes urging him to take it. "I meant to give it to you the night before, but didn't get the chance."

He stared at the foreign object with old suspicion. "What is it?" When had been the las time he'd been given _anything_ besides dirty looks or a beating? And why Dale, the same night he'd nearly shot a bolt through the fool's heart?

Dale unfolded the bundle. "Well, see, before the apocalypse hit, I was heading down south more to my nephew's birthday celebration. This was his gift, but seeing how the town he'd lived in was overrun almost immediately… I doubt he'll ever get it. And also seeing how I wrecked your shit…" He looked at the crude stitching holding the side of Daryl's clothing together. "…I figured you should have this as recompense. It'll just sit in the RV wasted otherwise. Looks like it'll fit ya."

Daryl stared at the vest with more fascination than he would usually allow to show. It was made of soft, dark leather, durable but light. Dale was holding the back towards him, so he got a good eyeful of the white, masculine angel wings stitched onto the surface. "Zack had always loved the cool, biker stuff," Dale added slowly. "He'd wanted a jacket with skulls and blood and other grisly things. 'Like hell,' I'd said; this seemed like a decent compromise."

It was a good vest, and _did _seem like it would fit damn well. Still, though, accepting it would put him in debt to Horvath, and he'd learned a long time ago that _debt _was the same as _dead_. _But he'd said he'd ripped your shirt, _friendly old reason whispered. _This is an action of getting even, squaring off. Just take the damn thing and stop starin' at it like a child drools over candy. _

Before he could accept or refuse the token, however, Dale was already shoving the thing in his hands, patting his hand as he drew away. "Keep it," he said firmly. "You'd be doing me a favor."

He felt the soft, flexible leather, and twisting his lips in thought, finally nodded. "A'right." _Takin' charity from 'em like a homeless fag, baby brother?_ Merle taunted in his mind. He quickly shoved the voice away, coughing into his fist. _Shut up, dumbass. I know ya would've _killed _for somethin' like this back in the day. _His brother had always had a fetish for black.

They both shared a short look of mutual understanding, lasting only a fleeting moment before Dale yelled over to Shane that they should get going, and they were off.

Slowly, with each yard their tires crossed, Atlanta became smaller and smaller, until it simply vanished from view. No one spoke when it happened, nor did they comment on how now, they only saw walkers every fifteen to twenty minutes. Nobody spoke about how blue and cloudless the skies were, how warm the sun shown down on them. To do so would jinx them, let them slip into a false sense of security. Would trick them into thinking they were safe, when they never really were.

Dale, hands locked onto the steering wheel of the RV, noticed how suddenly Daryl slowed down when passing a certain stretch of the woods nearby. He too eased up on the gas when passing, only to see what was happening. When he spotted a certain tree, a circle of flattened grass underneath it, memories flashed in his old mind. Images of a man with dark hair and strange dreams and, eventually, a gaping wound in his side. A man doomed to be a walker, who'd begged the reset of the group to leave him under the shade of the trees where he could be at peace in the end. Jim's memory filled Dale's mind until the elder forced the thoughts away. Just focus on the road ahead; looking back won't help at all. He glued his eyes to Daryl's bike's bumper, and drove the RV in an automatic manner until noontime, when everyone pulled over for a quick break. They were about eight miles fromt eh tree with the flattened grass.

They all parked at an old abandoned rest stop, everyone flocking over to the little picnic areas with the worn, wooden tables and pathetic play set. Carl and Sophia sat limply on the swings, the chains creaking miserably even though the children did not move; Glenn offered to push them, and received weak little glares in response. Dale watched the short interaction with a grim frown; they were all tired, hot, and frightened. Reality had settled in now, and the weight of the threat all around was suffocating.

Fort Benning seemed such a long way off.

He sat down at one table, sighing when Andrea, beside him, glared at him; sighing even harder when she stood up and walked off. He looked to his right to see that T-Dog had joined Glenn and both were halfheartedly pushing the kids on the groaning swings, with Carol and Lori watching, and Shane pacing nearby. Watching them all suddenly made him realize two particular were missing, and he called the black-haired man over. "Shane?" He waited until he had his attention before voicing, "Where are Rick and Daryl?"

Shane quickly pointed to the rest stop building, which looked surprisingly unharmed considering the present apocalypse. "Went in to clear the place out and grab whatever they can get their hands on," was the reply. "Should be back in a few minutes 'n we'll hit the oad again. So enjoy the sun while ya can. Ain't gonna bask in it for long, that's for sure."

Dale couldn't tell whether he was talking 'bout being back in the cars, or getting eaten by walkers. He figured it was a bit of both.

* * *

><p>The walker dropped with a wet thud onto the dusty tile, the arrow protruding from its skull gleaming with black and red cranial fluid. Another ravenous corpse stumbled over its fallen companion, a single growl escaping its wounded throat before a bullet put it out of its misery – if the geeks could even feel stuff like that. Daryl doubted it, as he yanked his arrow out of the body's rotten skull. He looked over to see Rick bashing the last monster's skull in with the butt of his gun, the older man grimacing as a few red droplets splattered across his face.<p>

After the third one fell, the building was quiet. Except for the three geeks, the place seemed undisturbed, candy bars still lining the shelves, a broken vending machine filled to the brim with soft drinks. The smell of the dead was still rank; but if you overlooked it, you could actually enjoy the place. In fact, that was exactly what Daryl was doing until he realized Rick was mumbling. He turned to face him. " 'm sorry, didn't catch that."

Rick gestured to the walkers. "I was wonderin' how they turned, 's all," he remarked. "Doesn't seem like there was too much of a struggle here."

He tried to feel the same curiosity as the other man, striving for the two of them to hold more common ground between them. But honestly, he could care less. "Don't go botherin' 'bout what's been done a'ready," he replied, licking his lips. He tasted sweat and rotten blood. "Won't do these sonsabitches any good anyhow."

Rick reluctantly nodded. "Yeah… yeah, you're right. Let's grab what we can, maybe go back 'n get Shane to help carry some stuff. We should get back on the road as soon as po…"

He was cut off by a gurgling snarl from behind him, as the kitchen doors swung open and a grey, ragged body flung itself forward. Before he even had time to spin around, Rick was on the floor, pinned down as his gun went sliding across the floor out of his reach. "Daryl!"

Daryl was already flying forward, knife in hand, crossbow flung aside for the moment of this close encounter. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed inside the kitchen was a back door, where the walker must have entered from. He then refocused his attention on the geek trying to take a chunk out of Rick; with a pissed off growl of his own he stabbed the thing in the back of the skull, the knife sinking in all the way to the hilt before Daryl pulled the thing up off his companion and cast it aside. It landed on its back, face up and frozen with a slack jaw and dull, milky eyes. That's when they both stopped short, gaping, a chill setting into the atmosphere. Daryl unwittingly shuddered, all warmth seeming to leave him as Rick stiffened on the ground.

They stared at the thing that had once been Jim for a long time, before finally Rick stumbled to his feet and wiped a dirty hand over his equally dirty face. "Not a word of this to the others," he said shakily. "They don't need ta know what happened to…" He couldn't bring himself to say the former human's name.

"I's not like they don' know that he was bit. We all knew what was gonna happen…"

"Daryl," Rick said, voice louder, firmer. "Not a word. Understand?"

He bristled at the rebuke but slowly nodded. When Rick started heading for the snack shelves, he paused. "Ya just gonna leave 'im here then?"

Rick swallowed thickly, lowering his head. "We don't have time ta dig a grave," he answered, sounding truly dejected and regretful. "Hear that?"

They both listened, and through the open back door they heard a growing chorus of monotone groans and gurgling snarls.

"We don't have time," Rick repeated quietly. "We need ta get movin', _now_."

So they grabbed what they could – some pop and candy bars – and cursed when they saw bugs in most of the food. No water either, all the bottles gone, and they decided not to stay and look for any. "We'll make another stop 'fore nightfall," Rick decided, and they jogged out of the building after dragging Jim's mutilated body over behind the counter, draping it with an old towel and curtain.

The sounds of the approaching dead was still distant, carried forward by the breeze, so there was no panic. But when the group was all together again, Rick told Shane they should get moving along, and they all cleaned themselves up quick and began getting back in their cars.

Daryl threw a plastic bag of Hershey bars and Milky Ways onto the back of the bike before he heard Glenn call over, "Daryl! Wanna borrow a shirt?" He turned towards the chinaman – Korean, corrected his little mind voice – and frowned. "What?"

He sounded a bit more snappy than he'd intended, because he could hear the groans coming closer and they needed to hurry, and Glenn hesitated before adding meekly, "Your, um, well, your shirt is ripped…"

He glanced downwards, only now just realizing that there was a thin but notable tear in the shoulder of his shirt, near the collar. _Must've cut it on that nail stickin' outta the doorpost_. He chewed on his lower lip 'fore shaking his head. "Nah. I got somethin'." He picked at the tear, waiting until Glenn wandered off, before reaching into the bike's satchel bags and pulling out Dale's – _his_, now – vest, eyeing it for a moment before slowly slipping it on, raising an eyebrow at how well it fit, covering the tear nicely and completely. Comfortable too. He accidentally caught Dale's gaze, the man's eyes twinkling, before turning away quickly, buttoning the vest, and climbing onto the bike.

They hit the highway once more, Daryl leading, Dale driving the RV directly behind him, and Rick taking up the rear. And they drove another two hours before the RV broke down. Before a herd passed through, forcing everyone to hide under the cars. Everyone dropped to the ground, T-Dog slicing his arm on an old rusty car door. When Daryl stumbled over to the man, the man who'd been partially responsible for his brother's fate, he hadn't thought. Hadn't had time for grudges or past prejudices. He'd lunged forward, saved Theodore Douglas from a walker, and hid the man from any more harm. When the heard vanished, he'd bandaged the gash, dragged the man back towards the others; and for once his applauding conscience drowned out Merle's ringing mockery. He shoved T-Dog into the RV, not exactly feeling terrible with himself, when he noticed Carol crying into Lori's shirt and Shane cursing up a storm. He straightening, wincing in the scorching sunlight, about to ask what the hell was going on when Glenn walked over, face ashen.

"Sophia's gone," he said; and that's when hell broke lose all over again.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: sorry for the long wait! also apologize for any of the dialogue that isn't word-by-word exact... unlike earlier during, I didn't have time to watch the DVD's while writing.**

**So, this takes place _after _the barn massacre in season 2, after Sophia's death. **

* * *

><p>"Daryl?"<p>

_Freakin' hell. _"What?" His tone was bitter, harsh, biting; a tone he hadn't used since Atlanta. There hadn't been any need for him to.

There was a hesitant pause from the other speaker upon hearing the young redneck's hoarse voice; but then, of course, Dale had never backed down before. "Daryl… are you alright?"

_No._ " 'm fine."

A deep sigh. "Daryl…"

Something within snapped, and he spun around and strode over to where Dale stood only a few feet away. He might've even punched the irritating bastard, if only the elder didn't wear such a sad, depressed expression. The expression everyone, even the Greene family, was wearing. Dale didn't flinch or back away – by now, he was confident he knew Daryl Dixon to know when he was crossing a personal line, when he should back down.

Now was not that time. So he faced the younger man calmly, even when Daryl growled, even when Daryl roughly shoved at his right shoulder.

"What you _want_, ol' man? Wanna choke on your _teeth_? Want a bolt ta through that thick fuckin' skull of yours? Huh?! Cause that's what you're gonna get if ya don't just leave me _be_!"

The words shook up a bit of his determination, and he might just have walked away; if he hadn't spotted that bright, feverish gleam in those blue/steel eyes, a shimmer that he hadn't seen, well, since Rick Grimes had first told the archer about his brother being left in Atlanta.

Grief. Hurt. Denial. And all those nasty little emotions in between. Swallowing thickly, Dale straightened and looked the hunter directly in those swirling irises. "It's not your fault, Daryl."

He couldn't help the sneer that formed on his lips as he seethed silently at the older man. "The hell you know anything." He turned around, started storming away; just like he had on the highway. Only this time, there was really nowhere he _could _go to. Not like he could leave the farm unnoticed, not with everyone wandering around fixing fences and helping the Greenes out with their farming. So he only got about ten feet before he realized that his feet couldn't carry him as far as he wished, and he stopped.

It gave Dale the opening he needed to add on, "It wasn't your fault for Sophia. That… that's not _on _you."

_Sophia. _

**_Sophia._**

Sunny blonde hair and big blue eyes, eyes that would go so wide with fear whenever her daddy would get a bit mad or maybe a tad drunk. Daryl still remembered nights in the camp where it took Merle's physical restraint for him not to go storming over to the Peletier camp and riddle Ed's face with arrows – he deserved it, abusive bastard.

_"__The hell ya goin' getting' all riled up for, baby brother," _the older Dixon brother had taunted, laughing cruelly. _"No need getting' your panties all in a twist for 'em white trash."_

_"__They got a little girl… a woman… they're gettin' _beat_," _he'd argued.

_"__So?! Watcha gonna do, Prince Charming? Ride over there on your loyal fuckin' steed ta save the day? Ain't our problem, comprende?"_

_"__They're getting' _beat_, Merle, for fuck's sake…"_

_"__And _you _wanna be next, little brother? Ya damn fairy fuck, ya wouldn't last a minute 'fore gettin' an ax ta the face or somethin'. Leave. 'em. be."_

The conversation had ended with the brothers rolling along the forest floor, screaming and punching and spouting profanities every-which-way until Shane had come along and ripped them from each other's grasp, ordering them to either get along or get their asses out of camp.

And Daryl had forced himself to forget all about Ed and Carol and Sophia Peletier; at least, until they'd lost the quarry camp.

No one had gone to that girl's aid before, when her father had marked her own lily-white skin with bruises. Had she thought no one would go looking for her after she'd gotten herself lost in the woods, all alone? Had she thought Rick wouldn't come back for her, that no one would?

Had she been frightened? Well, hell yeah, 'course she'd been frightened… but had she been scared of being abandoned? Left to die? Left to the walkers? The group _had _tried leaving the girl, and if not for Carol's and Dale's and even his own objections, maybe they all _would have _piled into that RV and left. Shane sure had been hell bent on deserting the search.

_"__You're just gonna give up now? We've got ourselves a trail! I just found a damn doll the other day!_

_"__Yeah, Daryl, that's what you found: a doll. Look, we have to start facing the reality here, man…"_

_"__Ta hell with ya, you don't know what you're talkin' 'bout!"_

_"__Oh yeah? Yeah?! I tell you what, Daryl, if Sophia had seen you coming, with 'em geek ears strung 'round you're neck and a scowl ugly and bloody as hell, ya know what?! She would've run in the other direction!"_

The words still burned his ears, scorched his mind; still haunted him. Shit if the pig was right. Sophia probably _would've _run.

What if she had? What if she'd been right there all along, huddling under some bush, and saw Daryl walk right past her? What if she hadn't come out because she'd been afraid he would've yelled, snapped at her like he had back at the old retirement home outside Atlanta? What if, because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut, he'd practically sentenced that little girl to death? What if this was all his fault?

Hell, what was he trying to pull? Who was he kidding?

Of course it was his fault.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_How are you?"_

_"__How do you think I am? I _shot _Daryl."_

_"__Oh, come now. We've all wanted to shoot Daryl."_

His words from a few days before had been meant to cheer Andrea up; and yet, the slightest sliver of truth were lodged in them. Ever since arriving at the farm he'd been torn between praising Daryl Dixon and simply shooting the young man in the back of the head – maybe not with a gun, but at least with a bullet of truth – because the archer couldn't seem to make up his mind. He kept skittishly dancing between being with the group, being Rick's new partner while Shane went off and lost his mind, and wandering off on his own. Dale had told himself he'd be patient, he'd wait for Daryl to realize that he was needed with the group on his own.

But _why _was it _taking _so long? Surely, Daryl was not a blind man. He could see that Shane was too preoccupied fighting for Lori and Carl that Rick needed someone to watch his back, someone who wasn't trying to steal his wife, someone he could trust to keep him alive, and vise-versa.

Someone like Daryl.

And Dale could see that even Rick was figuring this out rather quickly. He'd heard the screams of pure horror and panic when Andrea had accidently gunned down Daryl, thinking the bloody man was a walker. He'd seen Rick drag the unconscious Dixon back to the farm, then enter the farmhouse and sit by while Hershel stitched the hunter's wounds. And if Rick had already discovered that Daryl had to be his wingman…

He took several steps towards the back in front of him, eyes fluttering briefly to the angel wing vest that the younger man now wore continuously, before he was side-by-side with Dixon. Daryl didn't object as he usually would to the close proximity in which he was standing; in fact, he didn't seem to be aware of Dale's presence at all, his eyes hazed over, staring into nothingness ahead.

"Daryl?" No response. "Daryl, are you alright?" Still nothing. "Daryl!"

His final shout got him an elbow in the face. Sudden, shocking pain radiated throughout his nose and sinuses as he stumbled backwards, clutching the tender flesh, while Daryl watched wide eyed. "Shit… I didn't mean ta do that…" Daryl took a step forward, almost wanting to make sure the elder was alright, before losing his nerve and simply going completely still.

Dale cradled his injured nose for a moment, feeling the bones and sighing in relief when he didn't find any fractures. There was a warm stream of blood, however, and he fumbled for his handkerchief and then pressed the cloth against his face, wincing. "It's, it's alright, Daryl," he stammered as he held his head up high towards the sky, trying to staunch the blood flow. "I'm sorry for startling you. I just wanted to make sure you were…"

But when he lowered his head to face the younger man, Daryl was gone.

* * *

><p>He went, grabbed all his gear, and hauled it several hundred yards away from the farmhouse, across several fields, to the point where he could no longer even see the building and the group's camp anymore. Good. He didn't want nothing to do with those city folk anymore. They'd turned to him for one thing and one thing only: find Sophia. And they'd found her. A fucking monster locked up in a barn full of other fucking monsters. Sophia had been a walker, Rick had gunned her down, and Carol hadn't attended her own daughter's funeral. Everything was going to hell, and he didn't want anything to do with that. Not anymore.<p>

_Merle was right, for once in his friggin' life_. He tried not to think about the hallucinations he'd had several days ago when he'd fallen down the ravine, tried not to think about the poisonous words his older brother had whispered in his ear.

_"__That group don't care 'bout you? They gonna cast you aside like dog shit, little brother. Just you wait 'n see."_

_"__Rick 'n I…"_

_"__You his bitch now?"_

_"__I ain't nobody's bitch."_

_"__Listen here: ain't nobody gonna care 'bout you except me, baby brother."_

Rick had trusted him to find Sophia, to keep the group together with the miracle of finding that girl safe and sound. But he'd failed, and Rick was blindly following Shane around. Shane, who'd no doubt killed Otis to save Carl's life, all because he wanted that boy to call him daddy. Because he'd fucked that boy's mother. Because all of them – but mostly Shane – were screwed in the head.

He hammered in his tent stakes a bit harder into the ground than he had to, pounding them into the ground with all the strength he had left. Which wasn't a lot. Sleeping now brought along a torrent of horrific images, scenarios of Sophia getting torn apart alive than bleeding out on the forest ground. Then, the scene would change to Merle getting his face eaten off, and he would shout out that he just wanted his brother back (like he would ever say that to his face); and _then_, strangely enough, it would be Rick, and he would be screaming, fighting, but unable to save the older man. Next was Dale, and then Carol, Glenn, T-Dog…

The list would go on and on, an unstoppable film of death and walkers and gore, until dawn woke him. The very memory of the nightmares

He pounded down the last stake, and then grabbed his arrows, several long sticks he'd been collecting, and his knife. He sat himself against the ruins of an old chimney – there must've been some kind of building out here that had burnt down – and began whittling himself a new quiver-full of miniature spears, occasionally checking their length with his crossbow. He handled the wood skillfully; after all, how many hours had he spent as a child whittling, just to get his mind off his shit father and shit brother and shit life?

He couldn't believe that this time, he was trying to get his mind off some stranger's kid he'd hardly known.

_"__Shut the fuck up! Shut her up, or I will!"_

That'd been the last thing he'd said to Sophia Peletier, and the knowledge sent cold snakes squirming in his gut. He bent over a bit more, glared at the wood in his hand, and chewed on his lower lip.

_"…__and them roses would pop up where the mothers' tears fell, a sign that somehow, their children were being watched over. N' I 'lieve that this one? It bloomed for your little girl._

_"__We're gonna find that girl, and she's gonna be just fine."_

He brought the blade down so hard on his current stick it snapped in half. Cursing, he threw the splinters away and grabbed a new one.

He saw Lori Grimes approach him from the corner of his eye, but made no move to acknowledge her. She was cheating on Rick, a good man, and she was too damn stubborn to admit even to herself that she was in love with Shane Walsh, the ultimate asshat of a man. And an insane one, too – he'd torn the doors off a barn full of walkers just to make a point, for Christ's sake. She claimed to have Rick's back, but Daryl knew fully well that she didn't deserve her husband.

Not… that he cared about any of that.

She stopped several feet away from him, waited for him to notice her. When he didn't move, she sighed, and spoke up. "Daryl? Daryl, Rick's gone off to find Hershel."

He considered not answering, but then sighed heavily and shrugged. "So?"

She frowned. "I want you to go and bring him back. Bring my husband back to me."

He snorted, because her act of loving Rick, as a wife should her husband, was so fake he nearly laughed out loud. It also made him spittin' mad, because Rick was doing everything in his power to protect this woman, and she was just a _bitch._

Okay, maybe that was a bit much. But she still didn't deserve Rick.

Oh, but once again, this was none of his business.

So he told her off, scared her away as he'd done to so many that dared to approach Daryl Dixon. He ended his tirade by spitting at the ground near her feet. "Just go find him yourself!" he snarled, clutching his knife. "I'm _done _lookin' for people!"

And, at that moment, she didn't seem too scared; pissed, but not scared. He realized why as soon as he heard his own words. _"I'm done looking for people." _People meaning Sophia. _Shit_.

She walked away, chin in the air, and after a minute of staring hard at the ground, he glanced up and watched her retreating back. For some unknown reason, he nearly ran after her to tell her he would go and find Rick, bring him home. If not for her, than for the group's sake. After all, this was _Rick Grimes._ The man who'd handcuffed his brother to a roof and left him there. The man who was too conscientious for his own good. The man who was willingly overlooking the fact that his best friend had murdered a man just because he didn't want to face the painful truth.

The one man, besides Dale Horvath, that Daryl could stand to be around. The one man who'd actually asked him about his welfare, who'd warned him to be careful when hunting for food and Sophia, the man whom Dale kept pushing Daryl towards, telling him that Grimes could be trusted, could be counted as an ally. A friend.

But Merle's influence still had its claws sunk deep into his brain, and Daryl simply watched regretfully as Lori stormed away. He didn't get up, but he didn't go back to his arrows either.

He just sat there, and tried not to think about just how damn confused he was.

* * *

><p>Rick came back in one piece. Barely. He was a hunter, he noticed things. Like how Shane came back with a dead man's gun after claiming Otis had died covering him. Or how slowly, the group was crumbling, always at each other's throats like some sappy soap opera with zombies thrown in. Right now, he noticed the little scratches that Rick had tried covering up, along with the dry blood. He saw the young scoundrel, Randal, that Rick dragged out of the car; and when he heard what had gone down in the town, his mind went all fuzzy.<p>

_"__I'm done looking for people."_

They'd almost lost Hershel, Glenn, and _Rick _all at once last night, because he'd been too depressed, too hurt, too angry to go and look for them. He'd sent Grimes's wife, she'd almost died, they could've lost Shane too… and all because he was afraid that if he went alookin' for Rick, he'd find him dead or worse, just like Sophia. Pathetic. _And you think your worthy of joinin' their little inner circle, Darleena? _Merle teased. _You ain't worthy of breathin' the same _air _as that do-gooder Officer Friendly. _

And that just pissed him off more. He stayed in his little, secluded camp for the week that Randal healed; and then, when Shane came over demanding he go interrogate the kid – because, since he was a redneck, _of course _he had all kinds of fuckin' experience in friggin' torturing people – he didn't object. He went into the shed they'd locked Randal in, locked the doors, and let his fists do more talking than his lips.

"Your boys shot at my boys…" _At Rick. _"…and your tryin' to tell me your _innocent_?!"

His knuckles were bleeding heavily by the time he was done, and the toes of his feet throbbed from where they collided with the tip of his boot every time he kicked that worthless brat. He got measly information, but eventually left the shed and delivered what he could. He could see that gleam in Dale's eye, minor disappointment at his tactics, mostly concern, and he turned away. Knew the man would come forward and say his piece when he wanted to, and while he said quite a few words trying to convince him about Randal, the real conversation came _after _Rick officially announced that the prisoner was to die tonight. Yet one phrase did stick out.

_"__You're a __**decent man**__!"_

That had been the second time Dale had called him that, only this time, for some reason, Daryl hadn't objected.

As soon as the 'meeting' was over, Daryl left the farmhouse and wandered around aimlessly, only by chance happening to find Dale working on the RV. Supposedly working on the RV. Really the elder was just fiddling with radiator hoses and screws while mumbling to himself. Daryl watched him, questioning his decision to come this close to the agitated man; but Dale turned to face him before he could leave.

"You were _absolutely _right, Daryl. This group is broken. Shattered. It's lost its soul." Dale twisted his hat in his hands the entire time he spoke, and then went back to running his fingers over the RV engine.

"I know," he replied simply, shifting uncomfortably. "Said so already."

"I mean, I just don't under_stand_! How can they not see how _wrong _this is, how inhumane it is to put down another human being like, like, an animal?! They're too high strung right now, too scared, and they have no _right _to make this decision while they're not thinking clearly."

He stared at the ground and leaned against a nearby tree, offering a half shrug. "You're the one that said to trust Rick. He made tha decision…"

"He's too preoccupied with Shane to put his full attention into this," Dale stated bitterly. "You know what, Daryl? Maybe… maybe you were right about _another _thing. I think that perhaps there really _is _no such thing as decent. Not, not anymore."

_That _got his attention. His owns words thrown back at him; okay, not thrown, but still coming in his direction. And coming from the same man that had just called Daryl 'decent' less than five hours ago, it was the very image of despair and hopelessness.

"The group is broken, and there is nothing left," Dale continued quietly, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows. "It'll be the death of us all, just you wait and see."

_Hell no_. "Listen." Shoving down every tiny insecurity, teaching from Merle, and flight instinct he had, Daryl straightened and caught Dale's gaze willingly for the very first time, holding it there. "I said tha group's _broken_; never said it was _unfixable_." His eyes darted to the ground, but then came back up, determined. "An' nothin', not even this 'inhumanity', is gonna take any of us down. Won't let it. Rick's busy but he ain't blind – he knows that this'll change everythin'. But it ain't gonna kill 'im. Ain't gonna kill Shane neither, or the others, or me, or _you_." Sophia's face flashed in his mind, and he decided right then and there that they weren't going to lose any more people. "I _promise_."

He didn't even notice that he'd used the term 'us' instead of 'them'.

But Dale did, and slowly, gazing steadily back at Daryl Dixon, his tense shoulder relaxed, and he nodded.

* * *

><p>Wandering back towards the farmhouse to get orders from Rick on when to take out Randal for his execution, he noticed that Merle's voice had silenced itself. And for some reason, his mind flashed back to the time he'd been lost in the woods, and could've sworn he'd seen a chupacabra, that blood-sucking, demon of a dog. And then he thought of his hallucination of Merle only a few days ago, teasing him, taunting him, filling his ears with sweet toxin.<p>

And, huh, he couldn't tell the difference between the two memories.

Strange.

* * *

><p>That night, Dale died.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>So, as you can see, I didn't go too deep into the beginning episodes of Season 2 analyzing Daryl and the other characters because I feel there are already tons that do that, especially with the episode 'Chupacabra'. Hope you enjoyed, review, and when this fanfiction is done I shall be posting another, AU, Walking Dead story with the plotline of:<strong>

_After losing the prison and Beth, Daryl finds Rick, Michonne, and Carl; and the four find a small neighborhood protected by the remains of the US government. It's free of walkers, and it's SAFE. But the military draft, for the Biter War, threatens to take Rick from his family; so Daryl volunteers and goes in his place. Two years later, Daryl returns to Anchorage with a whole new set of scars and secrets that could tear whatever stability and safety they've found in half._

**Any ideas for this one? Add it to the review! :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: so, this is the last chapter for this story, takes place during the Season #2 finale (that was probably one of my most favorite episodes). Thanks to all who read this and enjoyed, and a big thanks to all those that reviewed. Happy that you paid attention to my first "Walking Dead" story, I'll be working on more. A few one-shots, and then soon the story I mentioned in the last chapter, "Rain". **

* * *

><p>"Daryl?"<p>

The voice was just a little breeze in the back of his head, drowned out by the roaring hum of the bike's engine. It was concerned, tired, weary… all the things Dale had been only a few days ago, and it made him grit his teeth and death-grip the handle bars.

"Daryl?"

The voice, a little louder this time, is determined to get his attention. Horvath never could lay off, could he? He was basically the father of the group, their friggin' Gandalf or somethin' (stupid _Lord of the Rings _shit). Dale had attempted from the very beginning to keep the group alive and when he'd thought it was breaking, Daryl had gone and done the most stupid thing he could think of: he'd gone ahead and promised that man that he'd keep the group alive. _Him _alive.

"Daryl?"

The voice was edgier now, and only it's raised tone and lack of masculinity reminded him that this wasn't Dale talking. These skinny arms wrapped around his waist, the shivering body pressed against his back as the person rode with him on the back of the bike, weren't Dale's. Couldn't be. Because Dale was dead.

"Daryl!"

The whisper-turned-shout was finally enough to get him to pull over to the side of the muddy dirt road he'd been taking, struggling to find a way to the highway. His brain didn't want him to stop, because if he stopped all the recent events would catch up to him.

But the voice was so desperate, and his own arms and back were screaming for mercy, so he cut the engine and gingerly slid off the bike, untangling those skinny arms from around him. He winced as he realized just how sore he was from navigating and riding from before midnight 'till dawn. Reopening his eyes, he looked over the ragged, lean, exhausted figure trying to get off the back seat without falling.

Oh yeah, that was right. He was with Carol.

He helped her down, slipping into his new habit of not making eye contact, because she had the same wide, blue eyes of her little girl. Worried. Scared.

Dale too had had that same look before Daryl had put a bullet in his head. And Rick, when Daryl had managed to catch a quick glimpse of him near the burning barn.

Rick was probably dead now. If the walkers hadn't killed him, Shane must've. That whole Randal stuff was bullshit; and Daryl hadn't seen it for what it was until it was too late. Shane had lured Rick Grimes into the woods alone, to kill him, and Daryl had watched… _watched_… them walk away. And he was once again completely alone.

"I'm sorry for making you stop," a feminine voice interrupted. "I just… I just needed a small break."

Right. Carol. How could he keep forgetting her? Maybe because he was trying to. It reminded him too much of Sophia, of his failure to protect, failure to be the 'decent man' Dale had said he could be. She looked at him with a dark, steady gaze that swirled with shy worry and a fresh gleam of steel that seemed to look right through him. He turned away, stared at the ground, tried not to look at the blood all over his boots. Could any of that blood be from his companions rather than walkers? Rick's even?

_Damn. Don't even think it. The man is DEAD. Father ya move on, the better. _Why was he lingering on this death and destruction longer than all the other's he'd lost in his life? It was a question he couldn't seem to answer, and that unnerved him. He tore his mind away forcefully, and glanced briefly back up at Carol. "It's fine," he murmured. "Probably jus' burnin' rubber anyways."

She nodded, and frowned at the mist-covered road ahead. "How far away do you think the highway is? We have to be close, right?"

" 's not far. Probably take 'till mid-mornin', noon at the most. But we'll get there."

"And then what?" She stared at him, expecting him to be the new-Rick. Expecting him to lead them to safety. "Do we wait here to see if anyone else made it? Or do we keep going? Do we go south, or to the coast? What… what do we do?"

_If anyone made it_. He didn't dare to hope. "Le's just git ta the highway; we'll take it a step at a time."

"A-And if we get there, and no one comes?"

He chewed on his lower lip, kicked a stone near his feet. "Step at a time."

She got the silent message, his protests that he didn't want to think about that at the moment. Something in the woods behind them snapped and crashed, and they both jumped. Without a word, Daryl climbed back onto the bike, Carol repositioning herself just as quietly. The engine roared to life, and just as the three walkers stumbled onto the road, they took off.

Past a burnt out farm, similar to how Hershel's had been.

Past an intersection full of dead cars and undead people.

Past a bloody mess lying in the mud, with a rag doll in the middle of it.

And, nearly four hours later, almost right past the blazing, zig-zagging pair of taillights that rounded a corner to his right, out of sight just as quickly as they had been spotted. But he _had _spotted it, and suddenly Daryl's heart was racing just as fast as the wheels of the bike were turning. _It could be them_, his mind ran away. _Could be Rick. Or Hershel. Could be all of 'em._ The red lights of the vehicle kept disappearing around every bend, and no matter how fast he dared to go, he could not catch up to them. He could feel Carol whispering prayers; and it was funny how before he couldn't hear her shouts, but now he could hear every word of her murmured Our Father's. Once he had told her to forget all about that religious praying stuff; now he just grit his teeth and focused on catching up to the disappearing car. Because that could be the miracle he'd always thought of but never received.

But the bike wasn't fast enough, and it didn't help that because of the two thin wheels, he had to slow down over the worst pot holes and moguls. Soon, he couldn't see those lights for fifteen minutes straight, and Carol's prayers had faded away. _No, no, shit, no. _Another ten minutes passed, but no more red lights in the distance. There was a chance the car was heading towards the highway, same as them; but there were so many roads going in that direction, so many turns… there was no way to be sure of anything. He hadn't seen the car close enough to recognize it.

He put on the breaks when a fork appeared in the road; and _of course _this was where the concrete replaced dirt. No tracks to follow now. And the air was dry and cold. He couldn't track shit at this point.

He couldn't help it. He kept the bike on but released the handlebars and slammed the palms of his hands as hard as he could onto the dashboard, so violently that Carol released him from behind. "DAMN IT!"

"Can you tell which way they…"

"_DAMN IT_!" Ignoring her, he leaned forward, sucked in deep, wild breaths, and tried to convince himself it didn't matter, he didn't care. He'd been – sort of – on his own before, hell, _Merle _had raised him, and half the time he was either locked up or high. But the mantra _I don't care _wasn't working this time. His chest tightened, and all he could see was the burning barn on Hershel's farm; Randal's bloodied, tortured face; Sophia, blue eyes gray and lifeless, pale skin mottled and torn. He regripped the handlebars to the point where his knuckles turned white, and keeping his head bowed, he tried to choke down the lump of hot coal in his throat. _What's the point? What's the fuckin' point of lookin' and getting' used ta and respectin' just for it all ta slip right out from fuckin' under ya? _

That was when the little voices in his head returned, Merle's _"Told ya so, baby brother. People'll _always _let ya down, even 'em dead ones."_ Merle laughed, and Daryl steeled himself, prepared his walls, already feeling Carol's touch as foreign. Intrusive. A stranger's touch. _"C'mon, little brother," _Merle coaxed giddily. _"C'mon back to ol' Merle. Leave 'em fags and bitches behind, ya don't 'em, not anymore."_

He could almost physically feel his protective walls once again sliding into place, mental concrete surrounding him, warding off the pains of reality. He squirmed under Carol's fingers, the sensation suddenly unwelcome, her gaze boring into his back making him long for disappearing into the woods. To just vanish as he had when he was a child needing to escape the house for a bit.

He was almost even ready to leave her and the bike and just walk away, when another voice, quieter, more soothing, firmly said, _"No."_ He fought it away, because it made him uneasy and it wasn't Merle; but it repeated _"No"_ and then added _"Left"._

_The hell?_ He withdrew even more, but the strange new sensation followed; and he released the breaks and reluctantly turned left on the bike. His hunter's instincts were the only explanation he could think of, so he told himself that, and repeated it over and over as the bike roared across the concrete road. Behind him, Carol asked whre they were going; he wasn't 100% sure, so he didn't answer.

Five minutes later, he spotted the red tail lights once more, only they were pulled over on the side of the road. And there, standing next to the car, was a sobbing woman and a chinaman. No, correction. _Korean_. They both looked up in unison as he screeched to a halt before them. At that exact moment, a blue pick-up truck road into view, carrying T-dog, Mrs. Grimes, and Beth Greene. And the little voice seemed to tell him good job before fading away.

Rick wasn't with them, but that was suddenly okay. Because if all these people had made it, the saintly sheriff had to be alive somewhere too.

Sure enough, when he led the group to the highway, he immediately caught sight of the familiar head of black hair and weary yet ecstatic face when both locked eyes. He pulled over a few feet, and he also noticed Andrea was gone. And _Shane_. Something told him Rick had taken care of the latter for good. So when the former cop reached out and took his hand firmly, Daryl accepted it as more than a greeting. More like acceptance, and gratitude, and even a new stretch of territory for the archer: partnership. Shane was gone, Rick needed someone to watch and protect his iback – and Daryl was going to fuckin' ensure this man stayed alive.

_"__You have Rick's ear," _Dale had told him the same day he'd said, _"You're a decent man," _to his face.

And it was only now that he realized it had been _that_ voice telling him not to give up, to go left.

After that, Merle's voice faded completely from his head, replaced by Rick's real one and Dale's quiet approval.

**xXx 7 Months Later xXx**

The prison was swiftly growing crowded, as more and more people either found their way or were brought to the safe haven. It was all these people, all these _strangers_, that sometimes got a bit too much for him. That was why he preferred going on runs with a smaller group of people. In this case, that was just Glenn and Maggie. As long as he ignored their nose rubs and little, naughty glances, he was fine. But seriously, this was no damn romance novel.

Runs so far were proving easy and quick, as they group now adjusted to the bountiful walkers and apocalyptic world. But this time was different. The screams came from across the street from the grocery store he and the Likesportal couple were exiting. Immediately, they were in formation – Daryl leading with his crossbow, the others following with a rifle and knife. They kicked into the café, immediately confronted by a dozen walkers. "Go, we'll cover you!" Glenn yelled, and Daryl shot three down before reaching the kitchen, kicking the door in. There was a single young man, around nineteen, within, cornered. Daryl shot down three more walkers and stabbed the last two. The young blonde man he'd just saved collapsed against the wall, panting, nodding his head wildly.

"Thank you, oh God, thank you…"

The walkers were gone, but he kept his crossbow raised. "You kill walkers before, kid?"

A small nod. "Yeah… but only three. My brother, he killed them all before he died. We came up here from _Florida_, man… and I only killed three. Got myself cornered, and good grief, I thought I was a goner until you showed up. You a cop?"

He already thought the kid talked to much. "Not a cop, just a guy. You… ya ever kill any people?"

The kid frowned. "Ya sure you're not a cop? Um… yeah, yeah, I-I did…"

His grip on his crossbow tightened. "_Why_?"

"It was my brother. He tried to kill me… he was bit, and he tried to kill me. But Mitch wasn't a walker… he was a person. He wasn't like _them_. But I did what I had to do."

Questions answered, Daryl lowered his crossbow; which the kid seemed to take as a prompt to turn on the lubber-lip again. "I'm glad I found some others – I've been alone for a while. Didn't know where to go. You have a camp anywhere? Know what? Doesn't matter. Can I just stay with you? Are those your friends in the other room? Man, it's great to have other people! Me and Mitch, we were trying to get up north to Maine where our uncle lives, but then Mitch said he'd already been on the road to visit _us _when everything went to hell, so he's probably dead, so I guess staying with you would be best…"

He was only giving the blonde 10% or less of his attention, and finally rolled his eyes at the endless torrent of words. "Don't run yer mouth ragged, kid. Let's get outta here – I'll take ya back to our camp."

"A camp? Even better!" When Daryl turned around, putting his back to the newcomer, the kid's voice went up an unbelievable octave. "Holy shit, look at those wings! I was into all that stuff before the zombies started showing up… hey, were you a clothes designer before all this?"

He nearly laughed out loud at the that guess. "Hell no."

"Well, I'll keep on trying," the kid said, smirking. "You, uh, you got a name?"

"Daryl."

"Sweet. I'm Zack Horvath."

***end***

* * *

><p><em>(Zack is Dale's nephew, who was mentioned earlier on)<em>


End file.
